If I Die (Don't Wake Me)
by How Clever of You
Summary: In which Thomas discovers who he is, who he is not, and who he very much wants to be. Or, the one where Thomas travels through parallel universes and finds himself in a (very) established relationship. Thomas/OMC, past Thomas/Jimmy. The end of the s3 Christmas Special never happened.


Much thanks to croc and Nikki for being my cheerleaders! Without your support I never would have been able to finish this. Also thanks to everyone who said they were excited to read - you made me excited to write! This is the longest thing I have ever written, fanfic or just fic. Excite!

Title comes from "Out Of My League" by Fitz & the Tantrums.

Please see this work on A03 for extras (attached in the end notes).

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"You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams."  
– Dr. Seuss

Thomas awoke to a steady beeping sound and immediately knew that something wasn't right.

There was sunlight streaming through the windows, illuminating squares across a bed too comfortable to be his own. There was the weight of an arm thrown over his abdomen, and he was perfectly aware that he had gone to sleep the night before in his own bed at Downton, alone as always.

There was a low grunt next to him and the arm across his stomach reached out to hit something to Thomas' left. There was a soft click and the beeping stopped, but only for a moment before a muffled voice blasted to life. They both startled and the person next to him sat up, making pathetic sounds as he went, and reached over to shut off what Thomas presumed to be the radio. Thomas opened his eyes slightly to see the chest of a man hovering above him. He followed the line of pale skin down to the man's shorts, which were paisley blue. All in all, Thomas was pleased with what he saw. He smirked to himself and closed his eyes as the man collapsed back into his pillow, legs tangling with Thomas'.

"Good morning," Thomas said, because he was clearly sleeping and Thomas wasn't going to waste a wet dream by lying about in bed with his clothes on. He rolled onto his side and admired the man next to him. He had dirty-blond hair and the deepest smile lines that Thomas had ever seen. They appeared against his otherwise smooth face when he grinned, eyes still closed.

"Let's just stay here all day," he replied. He had a lovely voice, and that was a lovely statement. Thomas let himself be pulled even closer. "We can just sleep, then maybe watch some telly and eat Chinese takeaway. That'll be later on, though. I just want to cuddle and sleep, now."

That wasn't quite what Thomas had been hoping for, but the man was warm and solid and it had been a long time since he'd been held. So he pushed his nose against the angle of his shoulder and savored the touch. The man turned his head and nuzzled against Thomas' cheek.

"You're usually the one telling me to get up," he said against Thomas' mouth. He kissed carefully, but Thomas supposed it had to do more with morning breath and less with actually wanting to kiss. "What's come over you? You've finished the project, love. All you need to do now is memorize those notes I gave you and…" He trailed off as Thomas deepened the kiss.

They kissed for only a few more beats before the man made a noise and pulled away, one hand covering his mouth. "I can only do this for so long," he replied. "Jesus fuck, your breath is awful."

Thomas laughed, watching him roll out of bed and shuffle across the floor to the lavatory. He took this opportunity to look around the bedroom. It was small, but not cramped. The floors were wood and the walls were painted a neutral cream color. There was a dresser sitting on the opposite side of the bed, and a set of closet doors across from that. The wall facing the bed was lined with tall bookshelves, all stuffed full of novels and thin plastic boxes of all sizes covered in art of some sort. Thomas wondered what they were. He was pleased to notice a stack of gramophone records in neat little envelopes. He had dreamed up a high-tech world, but at least something was still there to keep him tethered to reality.

There was the whooshing sound coming from the lavatory and the man reappeared. Thomas looked on in appreciation.

"Oh," the man said, grinning, when he saw he was being scrutinized. "Don't look at me like that. You know that when you do, I'm always late for work." He opened the top drawer of the dresser and rooted around in it for a moment before he pulled on a shirt.

"Be late for work, then," Thomas said. He seemed to be a working class man, and Thomas liked that. What he liked decidedly less was that they were talking about work _now_, when he could think of a million different things they could be using their mouths for. The man rolled his eyes.

"Come on, then. Brush your teeth and come have some breakfast."

Thomas lied in bed for another moment before heaving himself up. He peeked through the door on his immediate left, and beyond it he could see the man puttering around the tiny kitchen. He grinned to himself and followed the room back to where the lavatory was.

It was unlike anything Thomas had ever seen before. Half of the room was hidden by a thick brown curtain hanging from a rod, while the other half was taken up by a washing basin with a curious knob and what vaguely resembled a toilet. Thomas stared at himself in the mirror for a beat before turning around to open the curtain. He found a bath, which pleased him, though he was confused by the metal disc that had been bolted into the wall.

He did know what a toothbrush was, however, and he chose the dry one from the little metal stand on the right side of the vanity. It was green and rubbery, with little white bristles coming from the top. It wasn't what Thomas was used to, but he figured it out well enough.

The tap was still wet so he flicked that up and watched, impressed, as water spilled out. It didn't run brown like any of the faucets he had ever used. He brushed his teeth using some of the paste from the tube that sat next to the toothbrushes, then splashed water on his face. Thomas wondered what had been in the glass of wine he had had before retiring to bed, because his dreams had never been so far-fetched.

Pulling a shirt on over his head, he followed the smell of food out of the bedroom and into the small kitchen, where the man was humming to himself and poking at eggs over the cooker. He looked up when Thomas walked in.

"Finally," he said. Thomas sat down on one of the chairs against the raised countertop. "I thought you were going to miss breakfast."

"Me?" Thomas reached out for the newspaper sitting to his right. "Never."

He glanced up at the top of the paper, hoping to catch the date, and when he did, he furrowed his brow in confusion. Of all the dates he could have chosen, he had dreamed up this one? No wonder he couldn't figure out what anything was. He was in the goddamned future.

"Is this today's?" he asked, feeling a bit irritable.

"Yesterday's," the man replied, unaware of Thomas' displeasure. Two pieces of toast popped out of the toaster in the corner – though it looked nothing like the deathtrap Mrs. Hughes kept in her sitting room – and he put them on a plate before attacking with a knife and butter.

"It's 2013," he said.

"I know." The man shook his head. "It seems like yesterday we graduated from uni, doesn't it? It's been eleven years for me. Christ."

Thomas skimmed the headlines of the newspaper as the man continued to putter around. He lowered it again to watch him divide scrambled eggs between two plates. He looked deep in thought, as if he was still thinking about the year. He slid one of the plates across the counter to Thomas, who accepted it gladly and dug in.

"Can you believe Caelen's one?" he asked, awed. He shook his head and sat down next to Thomas, who had no idea who or what Caelen was. "She's growing up so fast."

Thomas made a noncommittal sound and shook out the newspaper again. The man reached around him for another section, and they ate in relative silence, punctuated only occasionally by the man's brief laughter and the flutter of pages as they were turned. Thomas tried to relax into the utter domesticity of the dream.

When breakfast was finished, the man cleared away their plates before going back into the bedroom, leaving Thomas at the counter. Thomas read about the economic state of England and the war going on in Afghanistan – which, only two years prior in the Real World, had just gained its independence from Great Britain – and, curiously, an article about English butterflies. He was just finishing up a news story about the President of the United States (who was African American – Thomas felt vaguely shocked and wondered how his mind could have even thought that up) when the man came back out of the bedroom.

"I'm off," he said, coming up behind Thomas and draping his arms around his shoulders. "You're lovely and I can't wait to get home to you." Thomas turned in his chair and let the man kiss him on the mouth. This time, he tasted like Earl Grey.

"I'll be here," Thomas said. He admired how the man looked in his suit, no matter that he was wearing a red polka-dotted tie. Thomas wished he would stay so they could kiss some more. He hoped his subconscious had something planned for when the man got home, or else this was the worst wet dream he had ever had. He considered placing it below the one about Carson, and that – ugh. He didn't think about that. No dream could ever be worse. He'd rather watch someone tear off his flesh and devour his insides before dreaming _that_ up again.

"I'll ring at lunch," he said. "We can eat over the phone together."

"Sounds lovely." He smiled and the man crossed back over the room to kiss him once more. This time it was open-mouthed, the man's tongue teasing against the edge of his lips, and when they broke apart he looked a little disheveled.

"Stop that," he said a bit breathlessly. "You're distracting me with hollow promises."

"You're the one who decided he wanted a snog," Thomas said, mirroring the man's smile. "Now go. Have a good day."

"You too." He leaned forward to kiss Thomas one last time before slipping away and out the door, a handful of enveloped in one hand and a bag slung over his shoulder. Thomas listened to the lock click shut when he made it outside.

Thomas wandered around the flat, not quite sure what he was supposed to do. He had no idea what half of the things in the man's flat were, so that left him with little options. He decided to explore and went poking around in the kitchen.

The majority of the room was made of deep brown cabinets that reminded Thomas vaguely of Downton's kitchen and Mrs. Patmore. There were two sleek silver doors that, when he went to inspect, Thomas found were the facing of a refrigerator. It was much smaller and slimmer than the one at home and was stocked with oddly shaped packages and tins with strange writing. Thomas closed it up again and decided he would look some more at lunchtime.

The sitting room was attached to the kitchen and, like the bedroom, was filled mostly with bookshelves. There were two couch squeezed into the small space, and they both faced a black frame on the wall. Below it, there was a black box that read the time in bright white letters.

There was a low table between the couches, and on top of that were even more books and some of those odd plastic cases. He reached down to pick one up and opened it to find a round disc inside. It looked like a phonograph record, but a great deal smaller, and he wondered if it was used in the same way, too.

"Kings of Leon," he said perplexedly, looking back at the art on the front. He shuffled through some of the others and found even more of what he assumed to be musical groups – The Muse, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Foo Fighters, fun., and Of Monsters and Men. He raised an eyebrow and wondered what sort of names _these_ were. And why he had dreamed them up in the first place.

He did find some books that he recognized, though the drawings on the front of some of them – including Wuthering Heights, which he had in the suitcase beneath his bed and where he stashed the letter from Jimmy – were different than the ones he had seen before, just like, he was starting to realize, almost everything about 2013.

The thing that shocked him the most though, above all else, were the pictures – all in color – interspersed not only between the books on the shelves but also hung along the walls. Up until he saw them, he had thought that maybe he had just spent a night or two with the man he had woken up beside, but judging by the pictures, he had been sorely mistaken.

Some of the photographs were of other people, few of who he recognized, save for the several unexplainable pictures of Matthew Crawley, his arm around Thomas' shoulders. A great deal of them, however, were of Thomas and the man. They were doing all sorts of things – dressed in suits and standing close together, the man's arm wrapped around his waist; sitting on what seemed to be the hull of a very expensive boat, laughing and drinking out of wine glasses; and kissing softly in downtown London, the Palace of Westminster visible in the background.

Thomas looked so young in some of the pictures. The man, too, had smile lines that weren't quite as deep. Thomas wondered if they were _together_, how long they had been, and why he didn't know the answers if the whole thing was just a creation of his mind.

He went back to the kitchen around the time the black box in the sitting room proclaimed it was noon. He poked around the refrigerator, marveling at all that they had. There were all sorts of fruits and packaged meat and some very interesting looking bottles, boxes, and bags that were completely foreign to him. But they did have bread, so he made himself a sandwich and sat by the window in the bedroom, looking out at the street below. There were cars, but they weren't anything like the ones Thomas was so used to. These were all sleek and shiny metal in all sorts of colors.

Thomas wondered what presentation the man had been talking about, and began to create a whole scenario in his mind. He figured that there was another Thomas in this dream world, one who wore his slippers and slept on his side of the bed. Thomas was just a visitor, perhaps. He wondered what This Thomas did here. What was his job? Thomas liked the idea that he was the head manager at a bank, or maybe one of those specialized doctors who could pick and choose which patients he wanted to see. Something prestigious.

He remembered the photographs with Matthew Crawley and wondered what that was all about. Maybe Thomas was his superior. Maybe – _maybe – _in this lifetime, Crawley was _his_ assistant. He would quite like that, actually, to have that man do his bidding. It would be a nice change of scenery, seeing his shoes up atop a desk while Crawley scurried around, nose to the floor.

Suddenly, a buzzing sound filled the flat. Thomas looked away from the street outside and glanced around. He had no idea what that was. He stood up and followed the sound, and by the time he had dug the little box out of a coat pocket, it had stopped making noise.

The box was black and rather lightweight, and when Thomas pushed at the buttons at the bottom, the screen lit up. Even after a day of poking and prodding at anything and everything, he still wasn't used to the technology of this age.

"_Slide to open_," was flashing on the screen, so Thomas crouched down next to the sitting room's short table to push it across. When that did nothing, he dragged his finger against it, pleased when the device allowed him access. There was another photograph in the background, this time a close up of a muscular blond man (not the one he had woken up next to) dressed in a tight suit decorated with the American flag.

"Oh," he said in approval.

There was a gray bar across the screen, just under the muscular man's chin, proclaiming "ONE MISSED CALL: KIP."

He clicked that, deducing that this was probably the 2013 version of a telephone. The screen switched to a picture of the man – the one from this morning, not the American – and underneath gave a string of numbers that made no sense to Thomas.

"Kip," he repeated, wondering why This Thomas would consider fraternizing with a grown man who went by Kip. It was a child's name. He didn't return the call; he didn't quite fancy embarrassing himself to a man who he was still hoping to strip naked later that night, juvenile name or not.

It was a dream; he could do whatever he pleased.

Thomas was rummaging through the dresser in the bedroom when Kip finally got home. It was well past sunset, but Thomas was still excited for the rest of the night to play out. He'd been thinking about it since the missed call, and he was a little bit more than eager to hear Kip panting his name.

"I've got takeaway," Kip called, and Thomas met him in the kitchen. There was a brown paper bag on the counter and Kip was unloading from it an assortment of little white containers. Thomas sat down at the bar and watched him. "They had this new garlic chicken, so I got that, and your lemon chicken and my Kung Pao shrimp, and we've got potstickers as well."

"Thank you." Thomas had never had Chinese before, but everything smelled good. He accepted the package that Kip handed him and peeled off the lid. He speared a piece of chicken on his fork and blew on it slightly to cool it down, his eyes following Kip as he placed himself next to Thomas.

"How was your day?" he asked, arranging the rest of the food between them.

"Fine."

"Have you memorized your presentation?"

"Yes," Thomas lied. Then, to change the subject: "Enough about me. How was _your_ day?"

Kip leaned over and kissed him, then launched into a story about some sort of book deal gone south. Thomas ate and listened, though he had absolutely no idea what he was on about, and when Kip finally took a breath, Thomas grinned, cranking up the charm.

"You really dodged a bullet there," he said. Kip nodded vigorously and put his fist against his mouth while he chewed.

"It was mad," he replied in a muffled voice. "Really, I didn't think anyone would put up such a fuss over this book. It's not even that good, to tell you the truth. But apparently the woman is really popular amongst the younger crowd. That's what they told me, anyway, but I tuned them out after I heard 'younger crowd.' I'm really not that old."

"Tell that to the wheelchair in the closet," Thomas joked. Kip rolled his eyes but smiled anyway.

In reality, it would never have been this easy to talk to a man, let alone one as attractive as Kip. But this was a dream, and so Thomas felt unnaturally relaxed and comfortable. He felt okay sharing with Kip, though he was a little bit vague on the details. But he trusted Kip immediately, with his soft features and wide smile. It would be a foolish thing in the real world to trust so blindly, but this wasn't the real world.

When they finished, Kip went round and collapsed on the couch, and Thomas dutifully put the little white containers in the refrigerator and the forks in the sink. Then he went into the living room and climbed on top of Kip.

"Thanks, love," Kip said, and leaned up to kiss Thomas. He was still dressed in his work clothes – trousers and a nice dress shirt, though the tie had come off and was lying on the coffee table – and Thomas sort of missed the warmth he had felt when they were only in their shorts. He started to untuck the shirt, and Kip laughed and slapped away his hands. "I don't like to do that after we have Chinese. Come on."

"What?" Thomas could not believe this. How could his mind have cockblocked him three times in one dream?

"The MSG makes me feel all bloaty," he said, adjusting his knees so Thomas was between his legs. "And I don't like to snog with fried food mouth. You know that."

"Make an exception," Thomas urged, leaning down to kiss Kip's neck. He'd never spent the night with a man with his clothes still on – then again, he'd never woken up and went about his day expecting a man to return to him, either. All of his encounters had been quick and hot, an escape for Thomas and another lonely man. Thomas wasn't sure that he was equipped for just cuddling. Sex, he knew how to do. Small talk and meaningful kisses, not so much.

Kip wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed him back, just as eagerly, and just when Thomas thought he'd gotten him, Kip rolled them over on the small couch and stood up. He looked down at Thomas, appearing a little rumpled, and somehow he doubted that Kip would be inviting him to the bedroom.

"You nut, you've got your presentation tomorrow. I can't have you being all slack and loose-limbed. I'm not carrying you to work, not again." He reached out and slapped Thomas' knee. "Go on, get in the shower. Take a cold one, if you need to. But I'm tired and I'm not putting out tonight. Pleasure yourself, if you have to."

Thomas had been pleasuring himself for so long, it wasn't even pleasing anymore. It was lonely and he always imagined it was someone else's hand on his skin. He hadn't been to bed with anyone in too long. He dropped his head back on the arm of the couch and sighed.

"Perks of being in a lasting relationship, eh?" Kip gave Thomas' knee a squeeze and went into the bedroom. His voice had become softer, as if he was apologizing. "You can refuse sex and they can't leave you."

"Oh, can't I?" Thomas replied. He lay on the couch for a moment longer before pulling himself up and going into the bedroom as well. Kip was already down to his shorts and a black shirt and was rubbing some sort of lotion on his arms. He looked up when Thomas came in.

"You could," he said. "But we've only one copy of that leather-bound _Hobbit_ and I don't think you fancy trying to find another."

Thomas smirked at him because it sounded like something he would smirk at. When he went to get into bed, Kip made a sound of protest and waved at him.

"Go shower," he said. "You're going to start growing plants between your toes with all the dirt there."

Thomas shook his head. "What are you, me mum?"

"I'd never have such an awful hairdo." He grinned brilliantly and crossed to the bookshelf. "Come on, love, you've got to look nice for tomorrow."

Thomas sighed long-sufferingly, like this was a daily row, and went into the loo, closing the door behind him. It was only then did he admit to himself that he had absolutely no idea what a shower was or how he was supposed to get into one. He flicked on the sink faucet to make it sound like he was doing something, then looked around for something that could be a shower.

Finally, he gave up and decided that he'd just run a bath. He pulled back the curtain and was relieved to find that there was actually a tap, despite it looking a bit strange. Water poured from the faucet and he looked around, trying to find some sort of plug to put in the drain. There was a pin on top of the faucet, and he pushed it down, then pulled it up. Suddenly, the faucet stopped running and a stream of water descended from the silver disc on the wall. He jumped up in surprise.

Oh. Maybe that was the shower.

He shed his clothes quickly, setting them on top of the sink's counter, and climbed cautiously into the tub. It was a strange sensation, having water pour down onto him, but it wasn't unpleasant. He pulled the curtain so he didn't have to look at himself in the mirror and looked around at the things Kip had in the bath.

There were an array of bottles set on a low-slung plastic wall and Thomas shifted through them. There was shaving foam, body wash (what he assumed to be bar soap in liquid form), and several different kinds of shampoo, which looked nothing like the kind he was used to. He picked up a purple bottle and poured some of the product into the palm of his hand. It was thick and velvety and smelled vaguely of coconut.

He rubbed it into his hair then washed it out in the stream of warm water. He watched the suds go down the drain and marveled at not having to sit in his own filth. How could he go back to a bath after this? He picked up another purple bottle – this one said hair conditioner but he wasn't quite sure what to make of that – and used that as well. It was thicker, but it made his hair softer. He wondered if This Thomas used pomade, too. Judging by the photographs on the walls in the sitting room, it was doubtful.

There was a strange looking sponge hanging around the faucet, so he picked it up and squeezed some of the body wash onto it. The sponge was blue and kind of frilly and the soap smelled like trees, though on the bottle it simply said _Fresh_.

When he was finished, he pushed the pin back down and shut off the faucet. He stood awkwardly for a moment, naked and dripping wet, before pulling back the curtain. There was a towel rack within arm's reach, thankfully, and he wrapped one of them around his waist.

He wasn't quite sure if he was expected to dress in the loo or in the bedroom, so he brushed his teeth and stared at himself in the mirror for a few moments, trying to decide. Finally, he opened up the door and emerged in a cloud of steam.

Kip had taken all of the pillows and stacked them up so he was half-lounging, a book in his hand. He looked up when Thomas appeared and gave him a half-smile.

"I thought you'd gone down the drain or something," he said. "You're never the one to dawdle."

"I was having a wank," Thomas replied, and then cursed himself. He was used to beating off in his bed. He should've done that while he was washing. Oh, well.

Kip rolled his eyes like he didn't quite believe him and sat up to rearrange the pillows, pushing some of them back to the other side. Thomas rummaged through the dresser drawers until he found a pair of trousers that he supposed This Thomas would probably wear.

When he was finished, he hung the towel back on the rack in the loo and threw his dirty clothes in what appeared to be a pile of laundry growing in the corner. Then he crawled into bed next to Kip and looked over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the title.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"Something Alfred recommended," he replied and made a face. "It's as much of a bore as he is."

Thomas thought of the Alfred he knew and smiled widely. Kip set his book down and leaned over to kiss Thomas' temple.

"You used my shampoo," he said, sounding pleased.

"I've got to have you on me somehow tonight, don't I?" Kip bit his lip to hold back a smile and hunkered down into the bed, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders.

"Go to sleep, you nut." When he was satisfied with how Thomas was lying, he reached over and turned off the lamp beside the bed. The room was suddenly overcome by darkness, though it was a different kind of darkness than that at Downton. There was light from the streetlamps outside streaming in through the window and the dull redness of the numbers from the strange radio to his left.

Kip shifted around, moving closer, and tossed a thin arm across Thomas' chest.

"I love you," he whispered, leaning up to kiss Thomas on the mouth, and there. Proof it was a dream.

"I love you, too," Thomas said. He knew that This Thomas loved Kip just as much as Kip loved This Thomas, and it was wonderful and awful at the same time. He half-wished that Kip loved _him_, the dreaming under-butler from 1922 with the bullet hole in his hand and a streak of unlucky decisions, but he knew it was in vain. This Thomas had a faint scar on the web between his thumb and first finger and he probably had friends. In fact, he _did_ have friends – he had Kip and, though Thomas still could not wrap his mind around it, he had Matthew Crawley of all people.

Thomas tried to stay awake as long as possible, even after Kip's breath had evened out and he was snoring quietly across Thomas' chest. He didn't want to leave this dream, where he had a flat with a boy named Kip who loved him and who he loved back. He didn't want to leave the promise of waking up to someone and having a shower and reading the newspaper over breakfast. He didn't want to go back to the coldness that had encompassed his whole being ever since the thing with Jimmy and, in succession, O'Brien's leaving.

Back at Downton, he would wake up alone and pull himself out of bed to wash up in the basin on his dresser. He would dress in his livery and pomade his hair then join the rest of the staff for a bland breakfast, where he would smoke and shoot everyone side-eyed glances that they would ignore.

But Kip was warm next to his side, the knee of his right leg draped unceremoniously across Thomas' thigh, and it wasn't long before sleep overwhelmed him and he was pulled back under.

xxx

The morning dawned sunny, though there was still a residual chill in the air from winter. Thomas awoke in his narrow bed under his threadbare blanket and thought about how nice it would be to have Kip's arm tighten around him. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was back in that flat, the sunlight falling over him and sleepy, close-mouthed kisses being pressed against his face.

It was nice to have those vivid dreams, of course, but it always left him feeling hollow the morning after. He eventually roused himself and dressed, then shaved quietly with his little razor. He ran a hand over his smooth face and sighed, then turned to make sure he was all packed.

The Crawleys were going down to a hunting log outside of London for a week to celebrate George's first birthday. Thomas was set to go with them in place of Carson, who was staying behind to help prepare the big party they were to host after the family returned. Thomas didn't quite understand why George Crawley would get not one but _two_ parties that he wouldn't remember when Thomas had never had one in his life.

He lugged his suitcase downstairs and set it next to the back door, along with all of the other luggage. Alfred, now the first footman since Jimmy had gone, was set to come along as well, and was standing awkwardly near the stack, trying to peer into the kitchen.

Thomas didn't quite feel like starting anything – which just went to show how poorly the dreams made him feel – and threw down his bag before calling Alfred a clumsy oaf and going into the dining hall, where oatmeal was already being served.

He sat down heavily and scowled across the table at Kierston, the lady's maid, who was much too nice for her own good. She gave him a wide smile in return and ran a hand over the top of her graying curls.

"And how are you doing this morning, Mr. Barrow?" she asked cheerfully. If she wasn't a woman, Thomas would have told her to bugger right off.

"Fine," he replied instead, albeit stiffly. He reached for his teacup and didn't say anything more.

Carson gave them the final briefing over breakfast, though they all knew what would be happening already. After the family ate, they would be dressed in their traveling clothes and would be taken to the station. Thomas, Alfred, Kierston, Anna, Bates, and Molesley would be in a car not far behind. Then they would take a train down to London, where they would be met with yet another car, and then commence the hour and a half ride out to the lodge, where they would meet Lord Jepsen, an old army friend of Lord Grantham's, and his family. Jepsen would have some of his own staff, as would the lodge, so everything was expected to run rather smoothly. They would return to Downton at the end of the week and have a full day to get settled back in before the party. Thomas was not looking forward to any of it.

Molesley, Bates, and Anna went up to dress the family for breakfast. Carson sent Thomas to take the bags out to the cars while he overlooked the meal, and Thomas did as he was told, grumbling the whole time. The chauffeur was a short foreign man called Merton who rarely spoke and never looked anyone in the eye. He opened up the doors for Thomas and left him to it. Thomas rather liked him.

He put all of the servants' bags in first, since they were already sitting near the door. He was able to stuff most of the suitcases into the back, though Bates' was balanced a little bit precariously on the top. Oh, what a shame it would be if it were to fall.

Once that was finished, he waited until the family had all gathered for breakfast before heading upstairs to retrieve their bags. Those took a whole hour to collect, lug down the stairs, and place carefully in the backs of the cars. Mary probably had four bags just to herself and another two for George. Thomas wondered what she could possibly have packed for a week at the lodge that required so much luggage, but he admitted to himself that he really didn't care.

Finally, an hour and a half after breakfast finished, everyone was ready to go. He dutifully helped the ladies into the car, Mary's stomach already round with her second child, then stood to watch the three cars depart before squeezing himself into the backseat of the servants' car. Bates and Anna sat beside him, Molesley and Kierstan were in the front seat, and Alfred had drawn the short end of the stick and was standing on the back of the car, hanging on as they hurtled through the village.

The train was already waiting, which didn't surprise Thomas judging by how long they had taken to prepare to leave, and the Crawleys all clambered out of the cars and right onto the platform, chatting and laughing as they went. Thomas stopped himself from rolling his eyes and helped Bates, Alfred, and Molesley unload the luggage.

The train ride was long and boring, as most train rides were. They were served sandwiches for lunch, and Thomas appreciated being the one who was waited on for once. He ate silently, staring out the window at the passing fields, as Molesley talked to Anna, Kierstan and Bates. Alfred was holed up in the corner reading.

It was well into the afternoon by the time they arrived in London, and they started the unloading/reloading process all over again. There were a set of cars waiting for them just outside the station. This time, there was enough room for all six of them to sit inside.

The car ride was long as well, though not nearly as long as the train, and Alfred slept, his head lolling down onto Thomas' shoulder. He shoved it off roughly and Alfred woke with a snuffle and a start.

They entered the grounds a good twenty minutes before they actually reached the lodge, which Thomas figured was just so. He marveled at how a family could own such vast amounts of land when he had never even had a blade of grass to call his own.

The lodge was less of a lodge and more of an estate. It looked rather similar to Downton, if Thomas was being perfectly honest, but it was surrounded by dense wood instead of rolling fields. It didn't appear that Lord Jepsen had arrived yet, and some of the lodge's staff was waiting outside, seemingly eager to help.

Three men joined Bates, Molesley, Alfred, and Thomas in carrying up the bags while the ladies showed the family to their rooms. With seven people, the unloading went much quicker than it had all day, and before he knew it, Thomas was downstairs directing the kitchen staff about to whip up a quick supper. They already had a chicken in the oven, so there wasn't much he could do, but it still felt good to be able to order people around.

The servants all gathered for a quick supper while the family rested, and the lodge's head – Mr. Travers, a thin bald man with a pencil mustache – introduced all of the existing staff. There were three maids – Clarice, Petunia, and Corrine; one footman – Hal; and a man named Gorden who served whatever purpose he needed to. The rest of the lodge staff lived down at the hunting cabins. Thomas fancied himself the head of the Downton group and acquainted his coworkers.

Thomas found that he didn't mind Gorden. He was an older, grandfatherly man with a soft gaze and a quiet voice. But Thomas could see the mischief in his eyes and, when Gorden caught up with him out in the hallway and clued him in on all the gossip in the house – his suspicion that Corrine had once stole a baby, Petunia being left at the altar the year prior, Clarice's penchant for seducing male guests – Thomas could feel a tentative friendship taking root.

Hal and Alfred served dinner upstairs while Thomas stood by, waiting for any sort of orders. The dining room was much smaller than the one at Downton and infinitely less ornate. It lacked the deer antlers that ordained Shrimpie's home in Scotland, but the walls were brown and bare, though in a much more expensive way than the walls of Thomas' bedroom were brown and bare. It looked, in short, like a hunting lodge, just like every other one that Thomas had been to while working at Downton. He'd been to a lot.

Lady Mary excused herself halfway through supper to go lie down as her nausea was getting the best of her. Her husband got up as well and helped her up the stairs, barely sparing a glance at Thomas, who held the door open as they passed. Lord and Lady Grantham spoke in whispers while Lady Edith and Mr. Branson sat in awkward silence. Suddenly, the party was much smaller.

Mr. Travers came to the door, head bowed respectfully, while Alfred and Hal cleared away the dishes.

"Lord Jepsen and his party have arrived," he said. "Shall we hold dessert until they're settled?"

"Yes," Lord Grantham said, standing up. "I'd like to go say hello, if you'll excuse me."

"Why don't we all go welcome them?" Lady Grantham replied. She rose as well and followed her husband out of the room. Thomas could hear a bustle of commotion out in the hall, but he dared not join them until Lady Edith and Mr. Branson rose.

"Shall we?" Branson asked with a sardonic smile, and Thomas was right on their heels.

Lord Jepsen looked a lot like Lord Grantham, though he had a full gray beard and tiny, beady eyes. His wife had shockingly red hair, but that was probably the most interesting thing about her. Their children, though – Christ. They were the sorts of people who made you thankful that parents so unsightly could produce such masterpieces.

There were four of them total – one man and three girls. The man had a sharp jet of black hair, though it was styled in a much more modern fashion than Thomas'. He was devastatingly handsome but also devastatingly married. He held a baby in the crook of his arm, the other wrapped around a small mousy girl with brown hair. The man's sisters were nearly identical, though it was apparent that they were several years apart in age. The eldest had deep auburn hair and nearly porcelain features; the middle had her hair bobbed, much like Sybil had had hers before she passed away; and the youngest was scarcely older than fifteen.

The foyer was in a complete din. Everyone was chattering over each other, hugging and kissing and exchanging greetings. Petunia appeared and plucked the baby away from her father, then went away to deliver it to Corrine, who was in the nursery with baby Sybil and George. Eventually, dessert seemingly forgotten, everyone crowded into the sitting room, where they spent another few hours catching up.

Thomas had the kitchen staff cut down the chicken into a more convenient dish, and Alfred and Hal reappeared shortly with finger food for the Lindons to eat. Thomas stood by, waiting for any sort of direction or request, and watched from the corner of his eye as the last rays of sunlight dissipated.

Around nine, the eldest daughter – Lady Melody, Thomas had learned; with child but whose husband had been tied up back home with estate problems – excused herself to bed. Lady Ella and Lady Edith were not long to follow, and Lady Jepsen sent the youngest up with them. Branson seemed to enjoy the company of the brother, who was just as much for Irish independence as he was. Thomas noted with amusement that Lords Grantham and Jepsen kept glancing at the two of them nervously, as though they expected one or both of them to decide to stage a protest right there in the sitting room.

They didn't retire to bed until past ten-thirty. By that time, Thomas was a little bit cranky and his back ached. He sent the valets up to do their work and went down to the servants' quarters, which was mostly deserted save for Alfred and Hal, who were playing cards.

"Want to join us?" Alfred asked. He had decided he was Thomas' best friend after Jimmy had gone, which Thomas still couldn't wrap his head around. Alfred had been the one who had wanted him in jail in the first place. Now, without O'Brien there to see things play out for herself, Thomas was suspicious that Alfred was acting as her spy. He didn't trust the oaf and probably never would.

"No," he said. Hal looked up at him, pug-nose flat against his face, and raised his eyebrow. Thomas scowled at him. "I'm going up to sleep. If you wake me when you stumble in at two in the morning, I will shank you."

Thomas heard Hal making some sort of married couple joke that was supposed to be good-natured, but he knew that Alfred was probably squirming in his seat. Maybe Alfred wouldn't be sharing the room with him after all. That wouldn't be too bad. Thomas could beat off before he went to sleep and not have to worry about stripping the sheets.

Thomas and Alfred's room was the first one to the right at the top of the staircase. It was small, but there was enough room between the two beds to maintain a comfortable distance. Their suitcases were sitting on the beds, and Thomas threw Alfred's on the floor and claimed the one on the right as his own.

He undressed quickly and changed into his sleep clothes, then slid beneath the rough blanket and stared up at the wooden ceiling. For the first time all day, he let himself think of Kip and what it would be like to be touched by him again. He imagined kissing down his throat like he had dreamed about doing the night before. Maybe he could take Kip to the shower and watch the water run down his lightly tanned chest, sticking to the soft mess of blondish hairs there. He would stand against Thomas until his knees were too weak, and then Kip would lean heavily against him, breath hot and shallow against Thomas' shoulder, Thomas' fist moving between them –

That thought was enough to get Thomas off.

He cleaned himself up idly, then crawled back into bed and lay on his face. He wished that Kip had been real. He needed another face to replace the longing thoughts he still had about Jimmy. It had taken over a year for the boy to come round, and then Thomas only had a week with him. But Thomas had wanted more than stealing quiet kisses behind closed doors, had wanted to lie Jimmy down and touch him like he'd always wanted Jimmy to touch _him_. That had scared Jimmy off and he had run back to Lady Anstruther. He'd gone out to France, a country he hated with a near-passion, just to get away from Thomas.

The first and only letter he'd gotten from Jimmy since he'd gone was all of two paragraphs long and an awkward, stilted apology, almost like the thank you he had given Thomas after the street fair. Thomas never thought for a moment that Jimmy would come back to him and the words only made it truer.

Thomas shifted in his bed, feeling sad and empty and cold. He closed his eyes and tried to will sleep to take him away. Some time later, it finally did.

xxx

Thomas woke once again to the unnatural beeping noise.

His eyes snapped open and he stared, heart racing, at the white ceiling above him. There was a quiet groan from beside him and an arm reached over, once again, and punched a button. But instead of the radio turning on, as it had the morning before, the room went silent.

It was a different day. He was back to this dream and he was going to have another day with Kip.

He rolled onto his side and stared at the man next to him, not even trying to hide his face-splitting grin. Kip looked the same as he had the night before, albeit a little more rumpled. His book was resting precariously on the edge of the dresser, just an arm's stretch away. Thomas hadn't missed a thing.

Kip seemed to sense that he was being stared at and sleepily opened an eye. His mouth curled up at the corners like he couldn't help himself, and he said, "What? Good dream?"

"Great dream," Thomas replied, and leaned over to kiss him. Kip groaned in protest and pushed at his shoulders. "Morning breath, I know."

"I'm not helping you with your morning wood, either," he said. "I'm planning on putting my mouth all over you later this evening, but you've got your presentation in a few hours, and I've got the day off, and you _really_ need to go brush your goddamn teeth right now. Jesus _Christ_, I've never met anyone with worse morning breath than you."

Thomas wanted to say _I didn't think I would see you again_, but he didn't want to alarm Kip. He could only imagine how difficult it would be to come to terms with the fact that the world you were living in wasn't real, and it was too early in the morning for that kind of discussion. Thomas rolled out of bed and went into the loo. He brushed his teeth as quickly as possible, then went back out into the bedroom.

Kip had fallen back to sleep on his stomach, his limbs sprawled out across the bed. His hair was sleep-mussed and flat in the back. Thomas crawled back onto the bed over Kip, one hand and one knee on either side of his body, and leaned down to kiss the back of his neck. He leaned some of his weight against him, trying to rouse him again from sleep.

He was fully intending on staying home and having his way with Kip. Presentation be damned – if this was a dream, he could fix his career. He was so full of happiness from being back here, his heart felt like it would burst. He wanted to spend the whole day with Kip, even if he wasn't allowed to have his way. He would be glad to just to gaze at him as he talked, and, oh, wasn't that a new feeling.

Kip groaned sleepily under him and Thomas let up a bit to let him roll over. He stared up at Thomas, one eye still swollen shut from sleep. The other regarded him in mock disapproval.

"You've got to go to work," he said, and Thomas leaned forward to nudge their noses together. When he smiled, Thomas kissed the lines that deepened around his face.

"And what if I don't?" He kissed his Adam's apple.

Kip made a noise that sounded like he was about to agree, but when Thomas kissed his way up to his mouth, he physically shook himself. "You're trying to trick me. No, you've got your presentation today."

Thomas sat back up, pleased to find that he was now straddling Kip, and coughed into his hand. "I'm feeling a little poorly," he said in a raspy voice. "Would you send a sick man to work?"

"He might not be going to work," Kip replied, "but he's also not getting a snog. I'm not catching your diseases. I don't know where you've been."

Thomas laughed, groaned, and rolled off of Kip. The bed was still warm where he had been lying before and he pulled the blankets back up to his shoulders. "It's my dream, I can do whatever I want."

"While I'm pleased that you think dating me is such a dream, you've gotta get up." Beneath the blankets, Kip's hand appeared and slapped Thomas' thigh. Thomas tried to reach out and take it, but Kip was faster and had disappeared from the bed altogether by the time Thomas realized what had happened.

Thomas stayed where he was and stared at the doorway to the loo. Kip leaned against it, toothbrush in his mouth, and, God, he was gorgeous. He had long, tan legs and a great bum and Thomas never wanted to stop looking at him, ever.

"Faster you do the presentation, faster you get home to me," he said, voice muffled, and leaned around the door to spit into the sink. "Come on, up you get. Put some of your fancy business gel in your hair so that nobody else is seduced by your luscious locks."

Thomas got back out of bed and joined Kip at the sink.

"Nobody else?" he said, amused, and put his hands on Kip's hips.

"Oh, you think I like you because of _you_?" Kip looked surprised and smoothed his hands down Thomas' arms, mock-soothing. "Love, no, it's just the hair. I stay for the hair." Then he grinned and leaned forward to kiss him on the mouth. "I'll start breakfast. You get ready."

Thomas was going to grumble some more, but Kip slapped his bum on his way out, so he decided that he could bite his tongue for a little longer.

He found This Thomas' 'fancy business gel' under the sink. It was some sort of 2013 version of the pomade Thomas used in the real world – it did, however, smell much, much better. Thomas went in the small closet and pulled out what he figured could function as work clothes. He pulled those on as he listened to Kip sing in the kitchen, then quickly pomaded his hair in its usual fashion before leaving the bedroom.

Kip looked up from the cooker when he came out and whistled low. "Wow," he said appreciatively. "My leading man, all dressed up." He let the wooden spoon slide back into the pot and came around the counter. One hand hovered over Thomas' hair, barely touching. "I like the new style."

Thomas felt strange, suddenly, like he was out of place. Between returning to this dream world twice and doing something so out of the ordinary for This Thomas, he could feel that something was wrong. Kip seemed to sense his sudden discomfort.

"Are you okay?" he asked, brow creased.

"Fine," Thomas said, his tone the same as when he spoke to the other servants. He scrubbed a hand over his face and took a deep breath, trying to reset everything and calm himself down. Kip didn't seem to catch onto the true cause of his mental breakdown, however, and smoothed a hand over his shoulder.

"Are you nervous about the presentation?" he asked quietly. "You're going to be fantastic. I promise. Do you want to run it by me again? Come on. I'll finish the oatmeal, you recite it. Pretend I'm Matt or one of your clients or something."

Thomas concentrated very hard on changing the direction of this dream.

"You okay, love?" Kip asked after a moment.

"I can't do it," Thomas said finally. The words tasted bitter in his mouth. Admitting defeat in a dream was a sign that he was a complete failure. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be presenting."

Kip made a sympathetic face at him and shook his head, going back to the pot. "You're going to be fine. I promise you. You've been working on this thing for weeks."

"I don't remember," Thomas said, "because this is a dream. I don't know where you think I work, but this is London. I don't live anywhere close to here, and – and you're certainly not real. People like you don't happen to me."

"Thomas, stop fucking around," Kip said, voice tight. He was starting to look a bit agitated.

Thomas didn't know what to say. He took a deep breath and sat down at the counter.

"I'm dreaming," he said carefully. He wondered who in God's name had dreams about telling people they weren't real. "This is the second time I've fallen asleep and woken up here. I don't know how to explain this to you because I don't know what I'm meant to be explaining."

Kip had steadied himself against the counter and was repeating, "Shit like this only happens in Doctor Who," over and over again. Then, suddenly, he cut himself off. "If I wasn't so scared they might kill you like they killed my dad, I would take you to the hospital."

"I don't _need_," Thomas started, but ended with a frustrated noise. "I'm perfectly fine."

"You're talking about _dreaming_," Kip said, a bit desperately. "I – I don't know what to do. Or say. Or ask. This is real life. You're real, _I'm _real. I – fuck, Thomas, you can't do this to me."

Thomas had heard once that if you were aware that you were dreaming, you could wake yourself up. But he had already acknowledged that he was in a dream and he was still very much sitting in Kip's flat. He ran his hand across the countertop. It felt real.

What if this wasn't a dream?

"How would you explain my being here?" he demanded. "If this isn't a dream, why aren't I still in 1922?"

"You – fuck." Kip ran a hand through his hair and abandoned the oatmeal. "Who do you – who are you?"

"Thomas Barrow," he responded. "I'm under-butler at Downton Abbey up in York."

Kip hid his face in his hands. "I could feel it," he said, his voice muffled. He looked at Thomas through his fingers. "Yesterday, I could feel it wasn't you. I thought it was stress. But it's – fuck. You're so goddamn lucky I believe in shit like this."

Kip went over to the couch and sank down onto the cushions. After a moment, Thomas followed.

"Do you remember me?" Kip whispered. He was sitting crossed-legged, his back against the arm of the couch. His face crumbled when Thomas shook his head.

"I'm sorry."

Kip pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes and took a few deep breaths. When he emerged, his eyes were slightly red-rimmed.

"My name's Josh," he said quietly, and Thomas, stupidly, felt relieved. He had an actual name. "You're the only one who calls me Kip. We've been together for five years."

Thomas thought about how that would be, to have someone love him for that long. It was mutual, even. He'd spent so long pining away after men who would never return his affections – or when they did, they would up and leave because it was too much. But Kip had stuck with him for five years and. Wow.

"Do you still think this is a dream?"

"It's got to be." Thomas dropped his head against the back of the couch. "Things like this… happiness doesn't happen to me. And I'm happy when I'm here, so it can't be real."

Kip was quiet for a long time. Thomas watched him warily as he chewed in his bottom lip, staring down at his hands. Finally, he unfolded himself from the couch and said, "I'm going to call Matty and tell him you're not coming in." He was halfway to the bedroom when he stopped jerkily and looked over his shoulder. "Matt's your best friend, by the way. You've a law firm together."

He went into the bedroom and shut the door behind him. After a moment, Thomas could hear him talking through the wall, but he didn't listen hard enough to understand.

He wondered what would happen if this wasn't a dream. He liked that idea if he didn't consider it for too long. When he did, though, he realized that he would screw his relationship with Kip up, just like he had screwed up all of the relationships he'd ever had with other men. That thought made the pit of his stomach twist into itself. He'd known Kip for less than two days and he already didn't want to hurt him. It wasn't even _his_ relationship to tank.

When Kip emerged, he was holding a machine that looked like a large book. He sat down next to Thomas, closer now, and opened its lid, revealing that it was not, in fact, a novel of any sort. It was slim and silver just like much of the other things in the flat. It had keys on it like a typewriter, but the screen came to life like the telephone had.

"This is a computer," he said, then stopped. "God, I'm not used to this. I mean, I've shown my grandparents how to use a computer, but they only ever want to look at photographs or check their email. I don't know how to explain it to someone in my generation. Or… not, I suppose. Christ, you're older than they are."

He shook his head and took a deep breath.

"I feel like I need to prove that you're not at Downton."

"But I was," Thomas argued. "I've worked there for over ten years. You can't erase me."

"I'm not _trying_ to." He tapped madly at the keys and Thomas leaned up to peer over Kip's shoulder. There was a long list of words underneath a gray bar that said _Thomas Barrow + Downton Abbey._

"There are all sorts of websites where you can track your ancestors," he said. He clicked on a link and tapped some more on the keyboard. "My sister Mollie has an account on one of these. I wonder…"

There were several more minutes of silence broken up by an offhand, rambling comment from Kip. Finally, he shook his head, his brow creasing in frustration. Then he typed one last time, furiously, before sitting back.

"You don't exist here."

"What?" Thomas took the laptop from him but was more or less helpless. He stared at the screen, but nothing made sense.

"There was no Thomas Barrow at Downton Abbey in the early 1900s. There was a William Barrow, but that's it. Downton isn't even in use anymore, not by the family. They film some sort of telly show there, Highclare something. I don't know. My sister watches it."

"Who else was there? Can you see more names?" He felt desperate to prove himself.

Kip took the computer back and spent another several minutes searching.

"The owners of the estate were the Grantham family, but the servants… There was a Charles Orson, who seemed to be the butler. Benedict something, I can't pretend I know how to pronounce that. It says he was a valet, but I don't know what –then there were Arlo and Ayden, who were footmen. And then William Barrow, who was also a valet. Those are the only men."

"I don't recognize any of them," Thomas said. His chest ached. How could that be? "The butler is Carson and His Lordship's valet is Bates, and the footmen are Alfred and, well, now it's a bloke named Jarrod. I'm the under-butler. Downton was owned by the Crawleys."

Kip smiled a little bit, but he still seemed sad. "The Crawleys," he repeated. "That's Matty's family. His wife, too, they're – I don't know, really distant cousins or something. It's creepy. Her name is Mary."

"She's got sisters," Thomas said. At least it was _something_. "Sybil and Edith."

"Yes," Kip said. He set aside the computer and put his head in his hands. "Thomas, I really – I don't know what to think. I'm freaking out a little bit here."

"I lived there," Thomas said. "It might not say it in your records, but I _lived_ there."

"I believe you," Kip said. "I'm just trying to figure out how the fuck you're here."

They sat in silence for a long time. Thomas just watched Kip again, watched his eyes flick back and forth between two invisible points as he thought.

"It's all this stuff you've made fun of me for liking for years," he said finally, laughing to himself. "It's this – fuck, it's parallel universes. I know it. I don't know how, or why, but you don't exist here. But you _did_ exist somewhere. You – you look like him, you know? My Thomas. And I know that you're a Thomas, too, and you act like him and smile like him, but you're _not_ him."

"I don't understand. Different universes?"

Kip pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his cheek against them. "Look at it like this. You live in your world. You always have. We'll call that Life A. And then you have these dreams, or so you think, but they don't feel like dreams. They feel real."

"I want them to be real," Thomas interjected.

"Yes, but they're not like normal dreams."

"No."

"Right. So in these dreams – we'll call them Life B; that's this universe, with me – you don't feel exactly like you're in a dream. You feel like you're still awake. You're living. A parallel universe is kind of like two different paths that you can choose. Some people believe that when you choose left instead of right, your life seamlessly splits into two separate universes. In your world, you work at Downton Abbey. In another, you might not. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Thomas was having a hard time wrapping his mind around it, but he nodded anyway.

"So I'm time travelling," he clarified, thinking of all of the H.G. Wells novels he'd read before. It didn't feel like that. He didn't have a machine that allowed him to travel through time, but he was somewhere far away from home. He wasn't in the right time. He didn't understand the customs or the tools. It was almost like being in a foreign country.

"Not necessarily," he said. "But in a way, yes."

Thomas shook his head, confused, but didn't push.

"So did I cheat on my Thomas with you?" Kip said quietly, mostly to himself. "Did I cheat on you with yourself? I don't –" He burst suddenly into maniacal laughter, startling Thomas. "Fuck, I don't know. It's like sleeping with his twin brother, but not at all. Are you still Thomas?" His face crumpled again and he put his face in his hands. "God, are all those memories gone forever?"

"I don't know." Thomas reached out tentatively and put his hand on Kip's shoulder. "But tell me about him. I want to be him. For you." It was an easy decision, one he didn't even have to think about. This way, they could both win – he would be able to stay with Kip and Kip would never have to see how ugly he was inside.

Kip looked up at him and shook his head. "If he's gone," he said quietly, "he's gone. I would never ask you to pretend to be someone you're not."

Thomas pulled his hand back and cradled his elbows in his hands, trying to seem as small as possible. He felt miserable. That's what convinced him, above all else. The misery. That pain never seeped into his dreams like this. If it did, he was being hurt or watching somebody else get hurt. But he never felt the ache in his chest that had been hanging in his ribcage for over a decade, not like it was now.

This was not a dream, and Thomas was going to have to accept that.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked, not looking at Kip. He wanted desperately for him to say no. He had no idea how he would survive out there on his own. "If he doesn't come back, should I go?"

"_No_." Kip reached out and gripped Thomas' wrist. "You might not be the Thomas I have loved for the past five years, but, somehow, you still are. You'll stay here as long as you'd like."

"Tell me if you change your mind. You might not find I am who you might've hoped."

Kip shifted closer to him and rested his head against Thomas' shoulder. He picked up his hand and slotted their fingers together. Thomas gripped him back tightly.

"You're not the Thomas I have known," he whispered, "and I am nobody that you have ever known. Let's find a way together, yes?"

Thomas leaned down and kissed Kip's knuckles gently. They sat in silence for a while, huddled next to each other. Then, slowly, Kip started to unfurl his body.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "You, uh, Thomas usually does the cooking around here. I'm shite in the kitchen."

Thomas rose with him and they went together into the kitchen. The air suddenly seemed less tense than it had been a moment ago. They would make it work. "You've cooked breakfast the past two mornings. Are you living a lie?"

Kip laughed and opened up the fridge to poke through its contents. "If you noticed, I only made scrambled eggs and bland oatmeal. Which, by the way, is burnt." He pulled out some bread, cheese, and packaged meats. "I'm really not a chef. I promise you. If I don't ask you to leave, you might decide to go on your own."

Thomas ignored his comment and said, "Cooking is a woman's job. Out of all traditions we might have upheld, was it not one?" He watched as Kip began to assemble sandwiches.

"It was," Kip said. "At least, until the women's rights movement. Now they get really iffy if you so much as mention a kitchen. I know plenty of women who shouldn't be cooking anyway – my mum is one; Mary Crawley is another."

Thomas grinned at the thought of Lady Mary in the kitchen. God, that must be a sight. He remembered Lady Sybil taking lessons from Mrs. Patmore one year, but she actually did end up living a middle-class life for a while, so it paid off. He couldn't imagine Lady Mary doing any sort of chore.

"What's so funny?" Kip asked. The smile lines had reappeared. Thomas had missed them.

"It's strange, I suppose," he replied. "I've worked for Lady Mary's family since I was young. Hearing you talk about her doing housework…" He shook his head and Kip laughed out loud.

"Lady Mary," he repeated, a big smile on his face. "Wow. Let me tell you, I've never seen her act ladylike. Not that that's a bad thing. She sure keeps Matthew on his toes." He wrinkled his nose. "That means Robert's rich then, yeah? Lord."

"What about it?"

"Robert is the biggest drunk you'll ever meet," he said. "I work with his middle, Edith, and she says he's a gold digger. He really is. Sloppy bloke, you know the type, I'm sure. Not the sort of man that's easy to picture rolling in a pile of his own wealth."

"Oh, no," Thomas said. Kip picked up their plates and carried them around to the other side of the counter. Thomas swiveled his chair to follow Kip's path, talking the whole time. "Lord Grantham's money isn't his own. At least it hasn't been, not for a long while."

He told Kip about the financial trouble they'd had during and after the war, and of the rumors he'd heard about the Lord only marrying the Lady for her money. Kip listened, eyes shining, as he took in this new information. It dawned briefly on Thomas that none of this was even true in Kip's world, but he liked how Kip was looking at him, like what he was saying was important. Thomas hadn't had anyone look at him like that in a long while.

He was suddenly intensely grateful that Kip had accepted him.

"What are we going to call him?" he asked once the conversation had slowed down. Kip was still smiling, grinding down bread crumbs between his fingers.

"Who? Robert?"

"No." Thomas picked up his plate and waited for Kip to hand over his before going back into the kitchen. Kip was looking at him, waiting patiently, and Thomas busied himself with throwing away the paper plates. He hid his face as he said, "Your Thomas."

Kip was quiet for a beat too long. Thomas didn't look at him; he was too nervous of what he would find in the man's face. Instead, he hovered awkwardly over the rubbish bin.

"I don't know," he said finally. "We – just Thomas, I suppose. It feels strange, though, because these are things that your body has done, but you haven't. You're him in physique but not in mind. It's very…" He trailed off, looking slightly pained.

"Okay," Thomas said. He wanted to change the subject. "Will you show me how to work some of your devices?"

Kip looked vaguely relived and smiled at him. "Where do you want to start?"

Thomas looked around the room and shrugged. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to the square box on the wall in the living room.

"That's the telly," Kip said. He crossed the room and picked up a long, flat object. He pressed a button and the telly flickered to life. Thomas was surprised; it was like the screen at the cinema, but the picture was in color. It had sound, too, and Thomas approached it in awe. "You watch things on it. You've seen films, yeah? It's like that, but they're shorter and they air weekly. Well, unless you're a Gleek."

Thomas touched the box beneath the screen and looked up at Kip.

"Oh," he said. "That's the DVR. I don't know what it stands for, but it records telly programs when we're not here to watch. Here, look." He pressed a button and a menu came up on the screen. Kip scrolled through a list of titles. "Most of these are programs we watch together… though all of these ghost and conspiracy shows are mine." He smiled kind of sheepishly. "What did I tell you? I like weird shit."

Kip showed him how to use Netflix, which came up on the telly and was almost like an extent of the DVR. Thomas was mildly fascinated with it and scrolled through their instant queue while Kip went to fetch Thomas' mobile, which was charging in the kitchen by the toaster.

"Who's that man?" Thomas asked, setting down the remote to lean over Kip's shoulder when he sat back down. Whoever he was, he doesn't hold a candle to Kip, but he didn't say that aloud.

"Why?" Kip said, looking up at him. He was awfully close and Kip's eyes flick down to Thomas' mouth almost imperceptibly. Thomas wondered if it was a knee-jerk reaction. "You like?" Thomas made a face at him just because he could and Kip laughed. "He's a superhero. Captain America. He started out as this little skinny shit, then got turned into a super soldier. In the film, he's played by Chris Evans, who you have a massive crush on." He grin got wider after a moment. "He's from the 1940s. The film takes places during World War Two. At the end, he wakes up in present day. Kind of like you."

Thomas smiled mildly, partially because Kip was still close. He could feel soft gusts of breath on his mouth. He wanted to kiss Kip so, so badly, but he thought of This Thomas. He thought of how he would have felt if Kip had been stolen away from him by an alternative version of himself and decided that it was probably best to keep distance, if only just for a while. That didn't stop him from wanting to lean over and press his lips against the corner of Kip's mouth.

Thomas looked down at the telephone and Kip followed his gaze, and they both snapped out of the reverie. Kip showed him the touch screen – and he'd be damned if he said he wasn't baffled by the technology – and all of the functions the smooth little machine had. Thomas took it from him gingerly.

"So this is a telephone," he said, "but it works like a telly, a radio, and a laptop?" The words still felt foreign in his mouth, but he felt proud that he knew them. He wondered what Mr. Carson would have thought of things like this, had he lived to see them.

"Precisely," Kip said. He rested his cheek briefly on Thomas' shoulder before standing up. "You poke around for a bit. I'm going to have a quick shower and then I'll show you the X-Box. You'll like that, I'm sure."

As Kip retreated into the bedroom, Thomas scrolled through the contact list on This Thomas' mobile. He had a lot of telephone numbers, but Thomas didn't recognize any of the names (save for Matthew Crawley, which came accompanied with a picture of the man grinning, his arm around Lady Mary).

There was a whole list of apps, which Thomas discovered were little programs that came up on the mobile's tiny screen. He read the news for a while, using one finger to scroll down the screen. There were also a lot of games, which he poked at idly. There was one with birds and pigs and another with a robotic unicorn that collected points, and he regrettably enjoyed them both. There was also one called, 'Dare to Quit Smoking,' and Thomas realized suddenly that in the two days he had spent in Kip's flat, he hadn't had a cigarette. He hadn't even had a craving for one, and that made him wonder if Kip wasn't responsible for that.

"Do I smoke?" he asked when Kip finally emerged again, blond hair wet and the kind of frizzy that comes with towel-drying. He plopped down on the couch next to Thomas, smelling strongly of the coconut shampoo Thomas had accidentally used the night before, and leaned into his side, looking at the phone.

"You found the app," he said brightly, smiling. "No, not anymore. I quit before I met you, and then made you quit, too. I couldn't stand the taste of the nicotine anymore, so it made kissing you rather hard."

"Yeah?" Thomas found himself looking back at Kip's mouth. It snaked slowly up into a smile and Thomas glanced up to see Kip watching him. His heart started to pound in his chest, hoping that Kip would lean over and kiss him as easily as they had kissed the day before. God, Thomas wanted that again.

But Kip just leaned forward towards the coffee table to pick up two oddly shaped devices he called controllers. He handed one to Thomas and leaned into his space, comfortably close, to explain what all the buttons and levers meant.

They played something called Mario Kart for a while. Kip got really into the game – he shouted at the screen and sat up on his haunches, bottom lip caught between his teeth, using his whole body to turn corners, as if it would help him round them more efficiently. He seemed to be a little too enthusiastic, though, because Thomas won the first two rounds.

"Well, now I _know_ you're not my Thomas," Kip said offhandedly. It wasn't meant to hurt, but it did, just a little. He longed to be Kip's Thomas, to stay in this world and never have to go back to 1922 again. He would learn everything he needed to, all of the gizmos and gadgets, and Kip would be there to help him. That's what he wanted. That's what he had always wanted. "He couldn't win a game to save his life."

This Thomas and Kip seemed to have an extensive collection of video games, which Kip proudly displayed a portion of. There were a great deal more racing games, which Thomas enjoyed because of the drastically different car styles, and a handful of sports, war games, and, strangely, something called Viva Piñata, which seemed to feature very bright, very interesting looking creatures.

When he saw Thomas giving him a look, Kip said, "This is technically my nieces'. They play it when they come over sometimes. But one time you were playing it with the oldest, Kasandra, and didn't stop after she left, and I started playing with you and we got really, painfully addicted to it. We have little armies of piñatas at our disposal."

When the sun began to set outside, Kip got up to order a pizza. Thomas looked at the paused screen of another very pink game that Kip claimed was property of Lyla. He felt pleasantly sleepy and relaxed, though he still wished Kip would lean over and give him slow, tired kisses that, honestly, didn't have to lead anywhere. As much as he wanted to lay him down and make him gasp out Thomas' name, he kind of liked the idea of just kissing. No rush, because there was time. He'd never had that luxury before.

Thomas recalled the intense jealousy he had felt for Bates and Anna after they had married and moved into their little cottage on Downton grounds, courtesy of His Lordship. What he wouldn't give to live a life like that. And now, here, with Kip discussing breadsticks with someone over the phone, he has the opportunity. It might not be his, exactly, but when had he ever been one to mind someone else's possessions?

He realized belatedly that he hadn't thought about Jimmy once the entire day. It was a liberating feeling.

Kip collapsed back onto the couch and picked up his controller again. "It should be here in twenty or so," he said. Thomas decided that he would start tomorrow, when there was a little more assurance than just two days to know the dreams – or not – were suddenly going to stop.

Kip reached over and jiggled his leg, breaking him away from his thoughts. "You still there, Cap? Come on, there are ponies to round up."

Thomas grinned at him, feeling a lightness in his chest that he hadn't for a long, long time. Kip, with his bright blue eyes and his semi-dry, messy blond hair, and his open, warm smile, was looking at him with open, undisguised affection. He couldn't remember ever being looked at like that.

He loved Kip, just a little bit. He loved Kip for the sheer amount of love he had for Thomas.

"Ready?" he urged, and Thomas picked uzp his own controller.

(Later that night, as they lay quietly in the dark on the edge of sleep, Kip leaned over and kissed him softly on the mouth. He returned to his own pillow after a moment, but his fingers found Thomas' beneath the blankets and squeezed, hard. Thomas knew it was real.)

xxx

George Crawley had fallen ill sometime overnight, so when Thomas entered the small dining area just before sunrise, Petunia was the only lodge woman there, and she was practically falling asleep in her chair. He took the seat two chairs down from her, adjusted his jacket, and looked at Hal and Alfred, who were sitting across from him next to one of Lord Jepsen's footmen.

"They've been up all night with the baby," Hal explained. The kitchen maid rushed in and set a plate of fruit in front of Thomas, then went away again. "They think it's from travelin', but you can never be sure, not with a baby that young."

Gorden shuffled in and collapsed in the chair next to Thomas.

"I just saw Clarice in the hallway upstairs," he said, helping himself to Thomas' untouched teacup. "She looked rested as all hell." He shot at meaningful look down at Petunia, who had actually fallen asleep, and raised his eyebrows at Thomas before sipping his tea.

Thomas lit up at the table because Mr. Travers was not there to tell him otherwise, but Bates and some of the other staff still shot him looks from the other end of the table. The kitchen maid ducked back in to deliver crepes that had been leftover from the lodge's last residents and started to cough as she walked into Thomas' smoke.

"Put that out," she said hoarsely. "Unless you've forgotten, most of this house is made of wood. You don't fancy burning it right to the ground, do ya now?"

"You've got a mouth on you," Thomas said.

"You've got no respect for rules," she responded, and stormed off again. Thomas rolled his eyes and turned back to the table to see Hal staring after her, soft-eyed and smiling.

"Really, Hal," Thomas said, reaching out to help himself to the crepes, and the footman blushed and looked down at the table. Thomas quirked his eyebrows at Alfred's disapproving look and said, "You really do fit right in here, yeah? Both got your eyes on the kitchen maids."

"Oh, shove off, Mr. Barrow."

While Gorden chuckled, Kierstan came into the kitchen looking just as tired as Petunia.

"He's all better now," she said, sitting down next to the maid, who startled awake. "Go to sleep, love. We'll make sure your duties are taken care of."

"I couldn't," she protested, but her eyelids drooped. "Fine, but fetch me before lunch. Or if you need me. For anything."

"Just go," Kierstan said, smiling. She put some crepes on her plate and looked around. "Did everyone sleep well?"

Thomas thought about falling asleep last night with Kip's fingers stroking the thin skin over his pulse point and nodded. Yes, he did sleep well. If only he could go back upstairs, bury himself beneath the blankets, and return to Kip.

"Did you sleep at all?" Alfred asked Kierstan. She smiled solemnly and took a sip of her tea.

"I was helping with the babe," she answered. "He wouldn't stop crying, poor thing. Achy belly. Anyway, he's resting now. Anna's up with him. When Clarice wakes, she'll go up and keep an eye on him and the others. Dunno where she was last night. We couldn't find her."

Gorden raised his eyebrows knowingly at Thomas.

"Right," Mr. Travers said, rushing into the room. Thomas stubbed out his cigarette on the leg of his chair, but it did not go unnoticed. "The gentlemen are hoping to be out in the woods by ten. The ladies are going to stay here and have a bit of a luncheon. Mrs. Karena is making a lunch to go out on the horses. Hal, would you go up and ring the dressing gong? It's about time for breakfast, I suppose."

Within the hour, Thomas was up in the dining room helping serve breakfast and standing by as needed. All of the women were talking about the baby, Lord Jepsen's daughters babbling on about old wives' tales. The youngest girl was listening idly and pushing her breakfast around her plate with her fork.

The men were all loudly discussing hunting plans – what they planned to kill, whether or not they would be able to use it. Lord Grantham desperately wanted a fowl to serve that night at dinner and had even gone as far as telling the cook downstairs to keep a quail recipe on hand. Mr. Linden informed them that there were some sort of specially bred deer running about up over the hill and that they might go after them. Mr. Crawley seemed interested in that; Mr. Branson just seemed bored.

After breakfast, Thomas waited to leave until both families had cleared out. Most everyone left in a flurry of noise and commotion, but the youngest Jepsen girl remained. She stared down at her plate, deep in thought, and occasionally ate a bite of toast.

She looked up and surprised Thomas by asking, "Is there a library somewhere in this house?" Her voice was small and soft. She stared at him with thoughtful brown eyes and took a drink from her cup.

Thomas quickly ran through the small mental map he had and replied, "I'm afraid I don't know."

"Would you help me find one?" she asked. "Sitting and playing Mahjong all day is dreadfully boring. Lady Edith is the youngest of the Crawleys and she's still a great deal older than I am. I'm Diana, by the way."

Thomas tilted his head slightly toward her, respectfully, and said, "I'm called Mr. Barrow."

"Well, then, Mr. Barrow," she said, rising. "I would very much like if you would help me locate some sort of written entertainment. I like to spend as much time away from real life as possible."

They left the dining room together. In some removed part of Thomas' mind, he wondered if Kip's nieces were like this. He realized suddenly that he didn't even know their names or their ages or even how many of them there were. Were the Mollie's? Or did Kip have another sibling? He made a mental note to find out.

They walked through the expansive halls, poking their heads into different rooms and coming across nothing more than bedrooms, offices, and storage rooms. Thomas half-wondered why he hadn't bothered asking before he went off to explore, but he knew he wasn't needed immediately for any sort of chore, so he decided for them that no harm would be done.

"You're quite young to be a butler," Lady Diana said after they closed the door on yet another vacant room. "Our butler has got to be in his seventies. You can't be older than forty."

"Thirty-four," he said. "I'm the under-butler, anyhow. Before that I was a valet, and before that, a footman."

"Wow." She stopped to poke her head into what appeared to be yet another sitting room. Thomas wondered why the wealthy needed so many rooms when they scarcely used more than two or three on a regular basis. "How long have you worked for the Crawleys?"

"Almost fifteen years." That was a long while. He ached briefly, wondering what life would have been like had he found someone like Kip in this world. Maybe he wouldn't have become so soured. Maybe he wouldn't work in service at all. He forgot his company for a moment and said, "Blimey, that's nearly half me life."

"That's almost all mine." She smiled up at him. "Did you always want to go into service?"

Thomas almost laughed. He didn't know anyone who had ever _wanted_ to go into service. It was like asking if she _wanted_ to go to school, or if she _wanted _to visit her grandparents over the holidays. It didn't matter what he wanted; a job was a job, and a job that had boarding was a life. And, as it turned out, the security that came with being such an exemplary employee for so long was well worth the isolation. He remembered Lord Grantham defending him against the police and felt a stab of grateful embarrassment. He knew his father wouldn't have done the same had Thomas stayed to mend clocks with him.

"No," he said finally. "I was going to be a clockmaker like me dad, but we had a misunderstandin' of sorts. Lord Grantham hired me shortly after that, and here I am."

"What sort of misunderstanding?"

"Never mind that."

They finally came across the library, nestled amongst a grouping of bedrooms. When they opened the door, Lady Diana gasped. The library was filled with bookshelves as tall as the ceiling, though the room itself was quite small. There were three armchairs and a desk, and Thomas watched as the young girl rushed up to the nearest shelf and dragged her finger across the spines. She pulled out a thick, dusty book and laid it out on the table before dropping herself on the ground in front of it.

"Do you require anything else, Lady Diana?" he asked. She looked up at him, beaming.

"Wouldn't you like to stay and read, Mr. Barrow?" The way she asked made him want to sit down on the floor next to her and pour over the books. He wondered if he would be a good uncle to Kip's nieces.

"I'm needed downstairs," he told her regrettably.

"Oh, but what a bore that must be," she said regrettably. "Thank you anyway. If you need to find me, I'll be here. Feel free to join me. I'm sure you'll find something to read." She hunched over the book, finger running across the lines resolutely, and Thomas left.

That night, the hunting party returned empty handed. Lord Grantham stewed quietly, though he tried not to let onto it. Mr. Branson and Mr. Linden had become even closer during the day, and Mr. Crawley had found an intelligent opponent in Lord Jepsen. They were arguing politics as they pushed through the doors.

Thomas ended up having to fetch Miss Diana from the library because she hadn't heard the dressing gong. When he found her, she had her hair tied up and had partially undressed, leaving her only in her girdle and underclothes. She looked up when he came in, but didn't blush or stutter, as Thomas supposed most respectable ladies did when they were caught less than decent. He looked away as she dressed.

"This book is really nice," she said. "Mummy wouldn't approve, so don't tell her, yeah?"

"What book have you found?"

"You can look again, I'm all dressed." He did, and she had indeed put back on her skirts. She buttoned up her blouse, staring down at the book. "Someone must have snuck it in. It certainly wouldn't have been allowed. It's called _Bertram Cope's Year_. It's about an English instructor in America who is simply the queerest thing. It's a Uranian novel. It says so at the beginning."

Thomas felt his stomach drop to his feet. What was this? Was she trying to frame him?

"Should you be reading that?" he asked, because it seemed the proper answer.

"No." She wrinkled her nose and sighed. "Can I tell you a secret, Mr. Barrow? Will you promise not to tell if I do? I don't have anyone to talk to."

Thomas could sympathize with that. He shut the door carefully and turned to face her again, hoping she wasn't about to blackmail him. He should never have trusted her in the first place, the little schemer.

"Is it very wrong to think of girls the way I'm supposed to think of boys?" She slumped her shoulders a bit. "Nobody talks about it and I think that's rather unfortunate. I know it's not proper, but…"

Thomas considered this for a moment, then steeled himself.

"Can I tell _you_ a secret, Lady Diana?" he said. His heart was pounding his chest. He supposed it was the thought of Kip that was making him act so foolishly. When she nodded, he continued. "I think of boys the way I'm supposed to think of girls."

She looked surprised for a moment, then smiled brilliantly.

"Then you _understand_!" she said gleefully. "Mr. Barrow, I don't like any of it. I don't like wearing dresses or dancing with boys or anything. I want to sit in the library and read books. They think that's shameful enough without knowing how I'd like to have a girl there with me. Oh, Mr. Barrow, you've made me so happy."

"Do you fancy anyone?" he asked. He supposed that's what young girls liked to talk about. At least, that's what he had heard. He hadn't the chance to be around many young girls, not that he wanted to be. Except maybe Kip's nieces – he would gladly sit down with them and talk about blokes if they wanted.

She blushed slightly. "There's a girl in my Sunday School class who's very pretty. Her name's Bridgett."

"I'm fancy on a man named Kip," he said quietly. He tried to tamp down his smile but couldn't.

"Look at us," she said. "We're a pair, aren't we?"

Thomas never thought he'd be _a pair_ with anyone, let alone with an underage elite who had a predilection for one of her classmates. Christ, between the parallel universes Kip had been going on about, his bizarre friendship with Matthew Crawley, and this very strange discussion – during which he disclosed a secret that could get him thrown in jail for admitting – Thomas was cut out for an incredibly strange couple of days. He hoped it wouldn't last longer than that. Things were quickly becoming very overwhelming.

"We should be getting you up to change," he said, and she made a face but returned the book to its place anyway.

"Have you ever kissed a boy, Mr. Barrow?"

"Lots." He thought briefly of Jimmy and his pink plush mouth. His teeth pulling against Thomas' bottom lip as they stole a kiss in the cellar. How happy he'd been those few days. But he had somebody else, now, and he had the sudden, stupid desire to write to Jimmy and tell him all about it. A thrill went down his spine at the thought of Jimmy raging with jealousy.

"Have you ever kissed any women?"

"Once." He tried to hurry her along before somebody noticed that the under-butler and Lord Jepsen's fourteen year old daughter were both missing. Gross indecency was one thing; being falsely accused of having relations with the offspring of a Lord was another thing entirely. If that happened, Thomas wasn't so sure Lord Grantham would be able to save him again.

"What was that like?"

They finally made it out into the hall. He lowered his voice. "Too lipsticky for my taste," he said. "Too careful."

"You make it sound dreadful," she laughed. "I can't imagine it would be _that _bad. Besides, Bridgett doesn't wear lipstick. We're not allowed to at church."

Thomas tried not to think about sneaking into the church down the street from his house at sixteen, just to kiss the boy who had pressed him down against the pews. The boy that Thomas gave his virginity. He hoped Lady Diana never got up to that kind of trouble – there was no thrill in almost being caught by the police. No thrill in barely escaping through the back door, trousers still undone, and running back home the long way, through the trees.

"Thanks for listening," she told him as they walked down the hall together. Now that they knew where the library was, it didn't take long to return to the main hall. "It's nice to know I'm not completely alone."

Thomas wanted to tell her exactly how much she didn't have to be alone, how he could be the person for her that he had always needed in his own life. But he reminded himself of all the risks: all of the letters that could be intercepted, how he could go to prison just because she accidentally told on him. He would forgive her, of course, but it wouldn't make the concrete walls of a cell any warmer. He looked at her and ached inside, hoping to God that society didn't crush her spirit like it had crushed his.

He noticed suddenly that she hadn't untied her hair, and he told her to fix it, now. She had just let it down again when Lady Jepsen appeared, dressed for dinner.

"Diana!" she said. "Where have you been? Go upstairs and change, quickly. Dinner's about to start."

She paid no mind to Thomas and turned to watch her daughter rush up the stairs.

Thomas went downstairs to check on the progress of things, and found it, thankfully, to be running smoothly. The lodge's staff was much better equipped and prepared than he had initially thought, and dinner was ready to be served.

Lady Diana kept glancing at him through dinner and giving him small, secret smiles until Mr. Branson began talking to her, and they started discussing books. Thomas almost wished that Branson could be her confidant. Kip had mentioned the night before that Branson had become a bit of an activist in his world, and was thrilled to find that his brother-in-law's best friends were as queer as daffodils. Maybe he would accept Lady Diana here, in 1922. It wasn't as far-fetched as Thomas had originally thought, and the more he considered it, the more he could see it happening.

The men were all tired from a good hunt and retired early, and the ladies weren't long to follow. Downstairs, the lodge staff and Jepsen's men had cleaned up for the most part. Thomas helped shine some silver for George's birthday party tomorrow, then went down to bathe himself. He thought about Kip's shower (and Kip himself) a bit longingly, but had to be content with the bathwater sloshing around him. He washed quickly, eager to get back to 2013. Back _home_.

Alfred had moved his things into Hal's room, which meant that he could listen to Alfred's snores from down the hall instead of across the room. He settled into bed, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders, and closed his eyes.

xxx

The alarm clock went off again and Thomas was pleased to have Kip lean over him, as he had for the past two mornings, to shut it off. He groaned tiredly and pressed his cheek against Thomas' shoulder blade, moving closer and wrapping his arms around his waist.

"Who am I speaking to today?" he asked hoarsely against Thomas' back. He yawned.

"Thomas," he answered, because he could. Kip pinched his hip.

"Yes, well, which one? You haven't tried to hump me yet this morning, so I'm not sure."

Thomas turned around in his arms and pressed up against him. God, he wanted Kip so bad. He could feel his morning erection, too, and that didn't help matters.

"I could," he offered.

"It's Cap," Kip said, grinning. "Other Thomas stopped asking after three years."

"Can I kiss you?" he asked. He suddenly felt a little unsure. Last time he had kissed someone without asking, well.

"Brush your teeth first," he said. Thomas sighed heavily and rolled out of bed, wincing when the cold air hit his warm legs. Behind him, Kip scrambled at the blankets, trying to keep them on top of him. Thomas laughed as Kip cocooned.

Thomas brushed his teeth and used some of the mouthwash Kip had shown him last night, then splashed some water on his face before crawling back into bed.

"How am I supposed to kiss you if you won't share the blankets?" he asked. Kip climbed on top of him, pulling the covers over their heads and hiding them from the sunlight streaming in through the window.

"Hi," he said, and leaned down to kiss Thomas on the mouth. He tasted like sleep and Thomas parted his lips to him, letting Kip's tongue tuck itself against his top row of crooked teeth. They kissed for a while, Kip's fingers tracing the line of Thomas' ear, and then Kip pulled away a bit suddenly.

"Have you got anyone back home?" he asked. His cheeks were a little flushed and Thomas wished he would lean back down.

"Not anymore," he said. "There was a boy named Jimmy that I kissed once, and it took him a long time to come around. We got a week together before he got scared off. I don't blame him, though. I was almost thrown in jail once for kissing him that first time."

Kip kissed his top lip softly, thoughtful and sorry. "You're safe here."

"I know."

"I'm sorry you have to live through that. Had to. I don't know. I'm sorry."

Thomas shrugged like it was nothing, when in fact it was everything. But he didn't want Kip to know how much he hurt inside, having everyone he had ever loved turn viciously against him. He didn't want Kip to ever have to hear about those days after Jimmy left, about how broken he had felt. He didn't like thinking about it, he didn't like talking about it, and he was sure Kip wouldn't like hearing about it.

Kip smoothed Thomas' hair back away from his face and looked down at him. "I won't ever let anyone hurt you."

Thomas leaned up and they were kissing again, this time a little bit more passionately. Thomas rolled them over and Kip grunted when the weight landed on top of him. The blankets became a confusing twist around them and Kip pulled away again, laughing.

"Christ," he said, trying to kick them away. Thomas kissed alongside his face, hoping this was going to go _somewhere_. "I need to call in for work, love."

Thomas sighed against his jaw and moved back to his side of the bed. He wasn't done and he didn't want Kip to be, either. But he understood and hoped that Kip calling out was a sign that they were going to stay here, in bed, all day.

Kip picked up his phone off the bedside table and got up to wander into the loo. Thomas straightened out the blankets and leaned back, trying to look at irresistible as possible. He already knew that Kip was in the mood; he just needed to bait him back into bed.

He heard Kip explaining to someone over the phone that there had been an accident and that he wouldn't be able to work in-office for a few days, but could he maybe drop by and bring his work home? Thomas listened to him hang up and run the tap to brush his teeth. When he emerged from the loo and saw Thomas draped across the bed, he snorted.

"Well, you're a sight," he said. "And you don't know how much I want to climb into bed and ravish you to death, but I, uh. I don't want to overwhelm you. Let's take this one step at a time."

"I'm not a virgin," he rebutted. "I've had sex before."

"Thomas," he said, half-smiling. "We've been together for five years. It's not _just_ _sex_ anymore. There's a lot of emotion in it, and I know you're mocking me internally right now because you _always _do when I get all sappy about our sex life, but it's – it's an experience. And I'm not saying it's an experience like going to Disney World's an experience. But you can't just jump into it. It's years and years of trust and love and it still overwhelms _me_ sometimes, being able to touch you. Having you touch me."

Thomas made a guttural sound at the thought of that. Certain parts of his anatomy seemed to appreciate it as well.

"So, up you get," Kip said. "Put some trousers on. We'll get some pastries down the street on our walk there."

"You can walk to your office?" he asked. He got out of bed and went round to the dresser. He held a few pairs of trousers up questioningly to Kip until he came across a pair that was his own. They were made of a stiff blue material, something Thomas may have come across before but couldn't quite remember. "What are these?"

"Yes, the office is just a few blocks down. Those are blue jeans. They're made of denim and they're God's gift to man." He craned his neck a bit to look at Thomas' bum and grinned widely. "Yes, definitely God's gift."

Thomas rolled his eyes, feeling pleased. He fished a cotton shirt from one of the other drawers and pulled it on over his head. He looked down to see a print of a red, white, and blue shield. Kip made a happy noise.

"We got matching tee shirts at the store once," he said, leaning against the doorframe. Thomas sat on the bed to pull on a pair of socks. "I got Iron Man, and you, of course, got Captain America. I never thought your shirt would be ironic."

"What are you saying?" Thomas asked. He pressed a hand against the slight protrusion of his stomach. "I'm not fat."

"Not that you're not _muscly_." Thomas stood up and they went into the living room together. Kip gathered a few things off the counter and headed towards the door. "I'm just saying, you both woke up in a time that isn't your own. Also, you're both hot as all hell."

Kip's flat was on the fourth floor and they took the stairs down. There was a small lobby at the bottom with a wall of mailboxes and a glass door that opened up to the street beyond. It didn't appear that they lived in central London, but they were definitely in the city. Thomas was surprised by the sheer amount of people streaming down the sidewalks – it definitely hadn't been that crowded when he'd been in London before.

They walked a few blocks down, passing building after building of flats, until they finally reached what appeared to be a more commercial district. Here, Kip turned right and reached out, fumbling for Thomas' hand. Kip looked over at Thomas, one eyebrow raised as he asked for approval, and Thomas swallowed down the lump rising in this throat and smiled at Kip.

"The pastry shop is right up here." He moved closer to Thomas, their shoulders bumping slightly. Kip's fingers were soft and narrow and Thomas' vague sense of unrest buried the thoughts of what those fingers would feel like on him (in him). He became hyperaware of every person that passed and put himself in defense mode, ready to lash out the second someone attacked.

Nobody said anything to either of them. When they reached the shop, Kip pulled him into the entrance of the alleyway just to the left and pressed him up against the wall. Thomas remembered this – remembered secret fumblings under the cover of moonlight, of kissing drunkenly in the shadows before stumbling away, unfulfilled and unhappy.

Kip slid a hand up and cupped Thomas' face in his hand and leaned close enough to kiss. He didn't, though.

"I promise, you can relax," he whispered. "Nobody is going to hurt you. You're not going to be carted off. This is a different time – it's _okay_. But if you don't feel comfortable holding my hand or kissing me or being seen with me as your boyfriend in public, I understand. And it's okay with me. The last thing I want is for you to _ever_ feel uncomfortable."

Thomas stared at him for a moment, feeling a sort of cold shock run across his scalp. He couldn't remember the last time someone had shown such genuine concern for him. He didn't know what to say or think or feel. He leaned forward and kissed Kip.

They exchanged a few, closed-mouthed kisses, then Kip pulled away. He fisted his hands in the front of Thomas' shirt, though, and pulled him along.

"You love the muffins here," he said. He wound his arm around Thomas' waist as they entered the pastry shop together. It smelled strongly of sugar, just as Thomas had been anticipating, and there was a steady murmur of talk all around them. Thomas glanced around, scared that they might be talking about him and Kip, but nobody was looking towards them.

Kip leaned into his shoulder as he fished his wallet out of his pocket and Thomas looked down the short distance between them. He felt suddenly, oddly, domestic. This was his boyfriend of five years. He thought of Bates and Anna and how they paraded around the house, exchanging looks and smiles and secrets and, oh, how Thomas had longed for that. He wanted someone to love him like that so badly it burned inside.

Then they were at the front of the queue and Kip was ordering for him and _oh_. He could feel it in his chest, that little bit of love he had felt start to bloom when Jimmy had arrived. But Kip wasn't scared of touching him or kissing him or sleeping in the same bed with him. Time differences aside, _he_ was the Jimmy in this relationship. He was so scared out in the open of what others might think, he stifled what he was feeling.

He had already forgiven Jimmy, because he always forgave Jimmy, but he finally understood, even if he could never run away from something so wonderful. He never would have run away from Jimmy.

Kip leaned up against the sugar counter while they waited for their coffees. Thomas stood close to him. Where Kip's legs were outstretched, his ankles sat between Thomas' legs.

"I want people to know you're my boyfriend," Thomas said. "I've never had that luxury before. I want to kiss you in public and not spend two hours crying in the rain, trying to think of a way out of going to jail. I don't want to be scared anymore, and I don't want to be scared with you."

Kip's smile grew even wider and he leaned up to kiss Thomas softly. Behind them, the barista called Thomas' name, and they backtracked to get their food. Kip had ordered Thomas some sort of raspberry-infused chocolate muffin and a coffee that had too many words for him to comprehend. He'd gotten himself an apple pie muffin and an Earl Grey.

They continued down the street, munching on their pastries and walking close enough that their elbows bumped ever so often. Kip broke off a piece of his muffin and set the paper bag in the crook of his arm so he could reach up and feed it to Thomas, who laughed against his fingers.

"How did we meet?" he asked as Kip crumpled up the paper and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.

"Before I became an editor, I worked for a magazine. I got chosen to run an article on this new up and coming law firm, and I was not looking forward to it at all. I didn't really fancy spending my day with a bunch of snobby old men. But I walked into this tiny little building and the secretary, Daisy, led me back into one of the offices. She told me Mr. Crawley would be right with me." He grinned at that, like he was enjoying that particular memory. "And this man strolls in, all blond hair and blue eyes, and ouch. He is gorgeous. He sits down and lets me interview him, and all the while he's smiling down at this wedding band on his finger. He told me he'd just gotten married to this lovely girl named Mary. I was a little bit let down at that. But we get on really well and he says, 'Hey. It's my birthday today and I'm having a few of my mates over for drinks. Would you like to come on over? It's just beer and a footie game, no need to get formal.'

"So I say sure, I'll try to make it, thank you. He tells me his partner Mr. Barrow isn't in today, but he'll be at the party tonight. I thank him for his time and go home and wonder why the hell I should go to a party for a guy who I have no chance with. But then I remember that his partner is going to be there and, Debbie Downer that I am, I decide to go and get my interview. So I put on a nice pair of jeans and a shirt that doesn't smell two weeks old and go over to the address he had given me."

They stopped in front of a tall white building. The plaque outside said Clint & Sparrow Publishing, but Kip made no move to go inside. He continued with his story.

"When I walk in, I meet some of his friends and whatnot, get a beer, sit around and mingle. Twenty minutes later, this man walks in the front door with a big, white box, and I think to myself, _fuck_. I thought Matt Crawley was gorgeous, but this man is just…" Kip let out a deep sigh and threw his head back. "So I go and introduce myself to him and realize that this is Mr. Barrow, Matt's partner. And he looks at me just like I'm looking at him and we drink and eat cake and somehow vodka and whiskey make an appearance. Then we're going back to his place and making out against the door and we've just got our hands all over each other. I think there were blowjobs exchanged, but I only know that from you, because the next thing I know it's almost twenty-four hours later and I'm still lying in his bed. I do not handle liquor well, and this lawyer let me stay in his bed and tended to me while I was a hangover _mess_. I slept for almost a full day straight and he didn't give a damn."

Kip shifted closer to Thomas, his cup warm between their stomachs. Thomas grinned at him, not caring anymore who was looking.

"I got that interview," he added with a self-satisfied smile. "I got it lying on my back in some lawyer's bed after sober round two." He moved even closer to Thomas so that his next words were a whisper against his mouth: "I never slept alone after that."

Thomas closed the distance between them quickly and Kip responded eagerly. Thomas was incredibly, embarrassingly, irrationally turned on, and he wished more than anything that they weren't in public. He wanted to blow Kip right up against the building and could feel against his leg that Kip was thinking along the same train of thought.

"Fuck," Kip gasped suddenly, pulling away. "Fuck, I'm humping you in front of my place of business. Fifty people probably walked past us while we were making out. God." He looked incredibly pleased, but also incredibly frustrated, and rubbed at the back of his neck. "I need to get my work."

"Then let's go back to the flat and continue this."

Kip looked at him with heavily hooded eyes and grinned. "Sounds like a plan to me. Are you coming inside?"

"If you'd like me to," Thomas replied and smiled, satisfied, when Kip squeezed his eyes shut.

"Fuck, just stay out here. Don't move. I'll… be back." He moved forward like he was about to kiss Thomas, then thought better of it and carried himself (with some difficulty, Thomas noted) up the two steps and into the building.

Thomas leaned up against the wall and watched people walk past. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket for his packet of cigarettes, but came up empty. He was just wondering how he could get a pack when his mobile started to buzz in his pocket.

Matthew Crawley was calling and Thomas considered ignoring it. But the thought of using his newfound knowledge for handling telephones had him sliding the green bar from left to right and holding it up to his ear.

"How are you feeling?"

Thomas startled slightly. It was strange to hear a man of such status speaking to him with such genuine concern. Or, well. Concern, anyway.

"Better now, thanks."

"Oh," he said. "So you feel just fine after the presentations. Which I had to do on my own, mind you. Guess where I'll be next time you ask for a favor? The same position you're in: hands and knees, doggie style. Fuck you."

Thomas thought he was going to lose it in the streets.

"Oh, fuck you," Matt said after a moment. "I'm married to a woman."

"Yes," Thomas said, then burst out into laughter.

"I am," he shouted over the phone. "I'm fucking married to – oh, fuck you, fuck you and your cow. I hope you choke on Kip's penis."

He refused to believe this was Matthew Crawley on the other line. "Right away, sir."

"I'm not that much goddamn older than you, dicklicker. Call me that again and I'll put a bullet in your brain."

Thomas began to laugh again because this was _so absurd._ People were starting to look at him funny, so he covered his red face with his arm.

"See what you've done to me? I used to be a really nice guy, you know. And then I met you and spent all my free time holding you up for beer bong and vacating the premises so you could get nasty with Turkish blokes. You have soured me towards life, Thomas Barrow. I'm hanging up, now. Tell Joshua I say hello."

Thomas spent the next several minutes trying to collect himself. Finally, Kip emerged from the building, arms laden with papers and books. Thomas took some of the weight off the top and Kip grinned at him.

"You've been laughing," Kip said and they started their trek back to the flat.

"I just talked to Matthew Crawley," he said. It still felt strange.

"Oh, Lord. He's quite a handful, isn't he?"

"I've never known him to be anything but prim and proper," Thomas answered. "He made a sex joke to me."

"That's Matty." Kip flashed him a smile. "He makes you think he's such an all-American boy with his blue hair and straw-colored hair, but he's really just a dirty little snake like the rest of us. He's a trickster."

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, then Thomas said, "So tell me about yourself. The basics."

Kip smiled over at Thomas and side-stepped around a woman giving her child a talking-to in the middle of the sidewalk. "The basics? Well, my name's Joshua Brice. Born April 13, 1980 in Chelmsford to a postman and his wife Lauren. Two siblings, Mollie and Eric. That's it, I supposed. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"What about me?" he asked, wishing he knew simple facts, like where he was born or if he had siblings. "Thomas Barrow, born August 9th, 1888, in Northallerton. Me father was a clockmaker, me mum a drunk. Five siblings: William, Charlie, Orwell, Anita, and Joy. Charlie drowned when he was five."

They had made it back to the pastry shop and both looked into the window as they passed. "Much the same," Kip said. "Thomas Barrow, born August 9th, 1978, Northallerton. Pops was a clockmaker, mum a drunk. Five siblings: Will, Charlie, Orwell, Anita, Joy. Charlie died of the flu when he was five."

Thomas tried to absorb that. Were their lives really that similar? He wondered if This Thomas had been bullied as a child, pushing around and convinced that he was a vile creature akin to murderers and other jailed felons. He had been a mistake, or so he had been told by almost everyone who had found out his secret. Carson's voice filtered in through his mind, a memory, saying, "_Nature has twisted you into something foul._"

"You said you had a Jimmy, yeah?"

"For a time."

"There was a guy named Jimmy last summer that really had his eye on you. He was a temp at your office and really" – Kip was starting to appear agitated – "really fuckin' wanted to get on you. He wouldn't let up. And we were going through a bad period, anyway. My dad had just died because of complications that the hospital could have prevented, and I was angry and hurt and I was lashing out at you, completely un-_fucking_-necessarily. You told me you kissed him, but I don't think that's all that happened. You denied it."

Thomas felt a thrill go through him that _Jimmy_ had been the one who wanted him. It hadn't been the other way around. It felt so good, but at the same time made him feel a scratch of guilt begin to shift in his stomach.

"I'm sorry," he said. They had arrived back at their building and they maneuvered around to get the door open. "I don't know what I did or didn't do, but I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize for what he did," Kip said. They climbed the stairs together. "I kind of deserved it. He was sorry, of course. I forgave him. But it still rubs me the wrong way, you know? I don't know if I should be mad at my boyfriend or that piece of shit little temp. I still don't. I've tried to forget, but you never do."

Thomas hoped that This Thomas was torn up by guilt. God, if he ever came face to face with himself, he would strangle him for making Kip hurt this much. He would strangle himself for a lot of things. He loved Jimmy – how could he not, after all he'd been through to get his attention? But he loved Kip too, a deep throbbing in his chest that he had never felt before. He had never spent three days with a mutually interested man and not taken their clothes off. He had never held hands or kissed in public. They had more opportunities than he and Jimmy could ever dream of. But it wasn't the opportunities that he loved. He loved Kip's thin wrists and his complete inability to cook and the way he looked at Thomas like he mattered. He loved that they had a long history and that Kip seemed to have memorized every moment of it.

When they got back into the flat, Kip piled all of his paperwork onto the coffee table in the living room. Thomas followed suit, then went into the kitchen and dug around their cabinets in search for the tea kettle. He found it, finally, above the cooker, and filled it with water. He remembered hearing the story of Lady Sybil's cooking lessons from Mrs. Patmore and smiled to himself.

As he set the kettle on the cooker, a pair of arms wound around his waist and Kip's chin came to a rest on his shoulder.

"I suppose I should call Matt."

"Can we talk some more?" Thomas asked. He reached up to take down a box of tea bags and Kip moved with him. "I'd like to know more about you. And about me."

Kip nuzzled his neck softly. "Yeah. Yes, of course. You finish with your tea and then we'll sit." He hugged Thomas once before stepping back and crossing around to sit at the counter. Thomas felt a little bit colder without Kip pressed against him, but he moved closer to the flame to make up for it.

Kip threw an arm across the counter and leaned his head down onto it, watching Thomas with barely concealed fondness. Thomas looked right back at him, smiling, before he joined him at the counter. Kip sat up and Thomas leaned into his side.

"Hey, Matty," Kip said. "It's Josh."

From so close, Thomas could hear Mr. Crawley's voice loud and clear. "Hey, mate. What's happening?"

"I need to talk to you," he said.

"You're not breaking up with me, are you?" he joked, but his voice had become tight. There was a bit of background noise as Mr. Crawley presumably sat down. "Is everything all right?"

"I don't know how to say this without scaring the living shit out of you." Kip leaned his elbow against the counter and rested his head in his hand.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "You're not freaking out," Mr. Crawley said. "So I'm going to take that as a sign that everything is going to be okay."

"Thomas has lost all his memories." There was a vague look of pain on Kip's face and Thomas wished he could erase it. Instead, he listened.

There was an even longer stretch of silence from Mr. Crawley. Finally, he choked out, "What? How? You've got to be fucking with me, Josh. Come on. I talked to him an hour ago. He seemed fine."

"We don't know what happened. He woke up one morning and…" Kip sighed. Thomas rubbed his cheek against his shoulder. "We've been trying to figure it out for the past few days."

"So when he didn't come into work…"

"We were at the hospital." Thomas was a little bit impressed (and turned on) by how easily Kip lied through his teeth. He wondered if he had rehearsed this at all. The kettle started whistling on the cooker and Thomas got up to go tend to it. This meant that he couldn't hear Mr. Crawley anymore, but he watched Kip's facial expressions to fill in the blanks as he poured the tea.

"Monday morning," Kip supplied, then stopped to listen to Mr. Crawley. "They said everything looked all right. They don't know what happened… I was with him the whole day before and all night. He didn't hit his head or anything. I would've known… yes, I suppose so…"

Thomas took milk out of the refrigerator and sugar out of the cupboard and set them both in front of Kip along with a teacup. Kip pressed the mobile between his ear and his shoulder and set about fixing up his cup while Thomas watched.

"Yeah, if you want to. It's going to be weird, but… No, I mean, he's fine. He was never down or anything. He just… forgot. Everything." When Thomas went to put away the milk and sugar, Kip reached out and grabbed his wrist. He smiled at him, a little sadly, and ran his fingers across his knuckles before letting go.

When he finished, Thomas sat down again and took a sip of his tea.

"Well, tell him I said to feel better," Mr. Crawley said.

"I will. He'll say thank you."

On the other end of the line, Mr. Crawley snorted. Thomas felt vaguely insulted. "No, he wouldn't."

Kip smiled fondly at Thomas. "Yeah, I know. I was trying to paint him in a better light."

"Josh, I've seen him piss out of a window, completely sober. There is no better light."

Kip laughed and said goodbye. He set his phone down, nudged his cup aside, and crossed his arms over the table, burying his face among them. After a moment, he turned his head slightly to look up at Thomas.

"Matt's coming over tomorrow for lunch," he said. Thomas reached down and rubbed a hand across Kip's back, smiling when his eyes drifted shut and he groaned quietly. "He's bringing takeaway."

"Okay," Thomas said, trying to act as though that thought didn't make him feel uncomfortable. The only time he had ever sat down with Mr. Crawley was that one time in the war, when they had come across each other in the trenches and Thomas invited him in to his little enclave for a drink. But then, they had been soldiers. Things had been different.

"Let's go talk," Kip said as the backrub slowed. He clapped a hand over Thomas' knee and brought his tea over to the couch, where he collapsed and threw his legs up along the length of it. He shifted a bit to make room for Thomas, then laid his feet in his lap. "What do you want to know?"

Thomas wanted to know everything. God, he wished nothing more than to have This Thomas' memories – every morning waking up next to Kip, every piece of burnt toast or meal gone wrong, every little thing that made him feel loved. He even wished he knew their fights, all of their little stupid arguments. He wanted every moment of the last five years.

Then he remembered the day before, walking around the house with Miss Diana. He wrapped his hand around Kip's ankle and asked, "Tell me about your nieces."

Kip grinned at that. "I've got three of those and a nephew. Kasandra's the oldest and the sweetest. She'll be eleven this year. And then there's Lyla, who's nine and your favorite. Then her brother Carson, who'll be five, and finally Caelen, who was born last year. Kassie and Caelen are Mollie's, Carson and Lyla are Eric's."

"Have we…" He trailed off, thinking about what it would be like to be a father. In 1922, the thought was terrifying, let alone downright impossible. Nobody would give him a child. But here, with Kip, he sort of liked the idea.

Kip grinned wide at him. "You've always wanted a girl. Me, I'm happy with anything, so long as I get dibs on being called papa."

"A girl," he repeated. He had no idea what to do with a girl.

"Yes. You haven't decided on a name yet, though. You keep switching. It usually depends on what we've been watching on the telly. Last week, it was River."

"Tell me about us, too," Thomas said, trying to imagine a little River tugging at the legs of his trousers. Who would she look like? In his fantasy, she could look like the both of them.

"All right," Kip said. "Thomas and Kip's Greatest Hits, Charlie Pace style."

Thomas didn't have any idea who Charlie Pace was, so he just smiled down at Kip.

"One of my favorite nights," he mused, "was this big power surge a few years back. London, completely blacked out. All night. It was surreal to look out the window and see nothing. You and I lit some candles and laid on the couch together, reading this book you'd taken out from the library a few days before. It was _awful_, let me tell you. The book, anyway. We fell asleep on the couch and woke up two hours later to all of the appliances beeping." He smiled slightly. "That's the first time you said you loved me."

Thomas could almost picture it: himself lounged back on the couch, Kip lying between his legs, back against his chest, book in his hand. He would have wound his arms around Kip's waist and Kip would have dropped a hand, playing with Thomas' fingers while he read. And then Thomas would lean down in the short interval between the turning of a page, or the start of a new chapter, or a breath, and whisper it in his ear. And Kip would turn his head back and smile up at him. God, Thomas wanted that. He wanted to hear Kip say it back for the first time.

Kip went on, regaling story after story of things that they'd done together, which wasn't exactly what Thomas had asked for, but it was nice. It just made him ache a little bit inside, knowing that he would never remember these things. They paused to eat dinner, Kip at the bar and Thomas sitting on the countertop, the conversation going on and on. But as time passed, Kip began looking at him like a bit of a stranger. He had dropped his gaze to his hands, though his small smile never faded. Thomas knew he didn't mean to, but it still _hurt._ Back on the couch, he started rubbing his thumb into the arch of Kip's foot again while he listened to a story about the two of them going to a fancy French restaurant downtown and pretending to be foreign.

Kip looked back up at Thomas when the foot rub started, and he beamed once before his face crumpled. He dropped his gaze again and finished the story. When he was done, he cleared his throat and said, "I think I'm gonna go hop in the shower."

"When you finish, we should watch one of your programs," Thomas said a little bit desperately as Kip unfolded himself from the couch. He missed the presence of Kip's legs against him, but he couldn't do more than watch the man go into their bedroom.

Thomas sat alone on the couch for a moment, wondering just what he was supposed to do. He could hear the shower turn on in the other room, and waited until he heard the door shut before standing up. He clenched and unclenched his hands for a few moments, then went into the bedroom.

He could hear it immediately: heavy, heaving sobs that stopped Thomas in his tracks. He'd cried those tears before, the ones so deep and aching that he thought his chest would burst open with the pressure of them. Carefully, he approached the door and opened it slowly.

"Kip?"

A loud sob was his only response. He wanted to go to Kip, wanted to hold him, but he knew that Kip probably didn't want to be seen crying. Thomas certainly wouldn't have. His dignity was one of the most important things to him, and he didn't want it compromised in interest of affection.

But then Kip drew back the bath curtain and stood there in the stream of water, one hand supporting him against the wall as he wept into his arm. Thomas, inappropriately, realized this was the first time he'd had the pleasure of seeing Kip naked. He was thin, but healthily so: his stomach stood out just slightly and the muscle on his upper arms wasn't quite as tight as it might've been a few years before. But he was so, so lovely, with the light dusting of blond hair on his chest and the generous cusp at the base of his navel, and Thomas allowed himself to look only that far before grabbing a towel off the rack and handing it over to Kip, who sunk to the plastic bottom.

Thomas reached over and shut off the water, waiting until the tap finished gushing before climbing in as well. The water soaked into his socks, but he stayed seated on the side to keep the rest of him dry. Kip had pulled his knees into his chest and was presently crying into his arms, his back heaving. Thomas pulled him up against his leg and he could feel every sob that wracked Kip's frame. It broke his heart to see someone who had been so happy and helpful become so broken.

"I'm," Kip kept starting, but the hyperventilating had begun and his breaths were coming out in hard, strangled gasps, and Thomas clutched him even closer. Eventually, the weeping had subsided, and he rested quietly against Thomas' side. His hair, though still damp, had dried slightly. He shifted in his towel, and Thomas realized that the bottom was probably still damp.

"Why don't we get you up and dressed," Thomas suggested, and Kip nodded lethargically. He stood up, shaking like a leaf, and followed Thomas out into the bedroom, where he dug out a tee shirt and a pair of track pants. Then he crawled into bed and Thomas sat down next to him, close enough for Kip to shift closer if he wanted to.

"It was fun yesterday, towards the end," he said numbly. "But then I realized that this – this isn't a _game_. This isn't going to stop. You're going to be here for some indeterminate amount of time without remembering anything. You don't – you don't remember _me._"

Thomas twisted one of his hands into the blankets and looked away from Kip. "I could leave if you want."

"That's the thing, though." Kip didn't lean into him, but he took the sleeve of Thomas' shirt between his fingers. "You – you're still him. You're still my Thomas. You've got these different memories and you've experienced different things, but you're still_ him._ You're still you. You're still the only one here who drinks coffee and you like your toast undercooked and you even _walk_ the same. It's the same body that you've always had, but it's a different mind. And I…" He choked up here and Thomas leaned into him imperceptibly. Kip leaned back.

"You two are so alike," he whispered. "What if I'm cheating on him? What if I wake up one day and it's him again and he's cross?"

"I wouldn't be cross," Thomas said. "Not at you. I would want to shank the man who you were with, but not you. Never you." He reached up, then aborted his movement. He let another beat pass before he continued the movement, brushing the hair out of Kip's face.

Kip leaned into his touch. "It's been three days. How do I explain falling in love with someone else the moment he's gone?"

"But you didn't. You fell in love with him. You fell in love with me."

Kip fell silent for a moment. "You're so alike. But you're so _profoundly_ different. You're just… you've been hardened or broken or something. The Thomas before wasn't as sad. I want to fix you and make you feel like you don't need to be scared or defensive or angry." He reached out and gripped Thomas' wrist in his hand. "I want you to feel loved, like the Thomas before felt loved. But I also don't want to hurt you. Or him."

"I've been through a lot," Thomas said, honestly, "most of the trouble being my own fault. I made bad choices, and I – I don't want to hurt _you._"

Kip turned and put his hands on either side of Thomas' face. He looked straight into Thomas' eyes. He was close enough that Thomas could hear his quiet, congested breathing. His eyes were blotchy and drooping. "I've spent five years with your bad decisions," he said. "You couldn't pay me to give that up."

"You don't," Thomas said, and he could feel himself choking up. "You don't understand. I've ruined people's _lives_."

"People have ruined _your_ life." Kip smoothed a hand through Thomas' hair and cupped the back of his head. "I couldn't imagine growing up and being told that what I am is wrong. It's enough to drive anyone mad."

Thomas gripped the hand that still rested on his cheek. "You have no idea," he whispered, vaguely aware that his tears had spilled over and were running tracks down his face.

"Tell me," Kip said, and leaned forward to kiss Thomas hard on the mouth. It was hot and painful, nothing like how they'd kissed before, but Thomas responded just as eagerly. Kip bit at his mouth and raked a hand through his hair, then leaned back into the pillows and pulled Thomas on top of him. Thomas went along without complaint.

He could feel Kip already half-hard beneath him, and he grinded down just to hear the strangled gasp Kip let out in response. They kissed sloppily, and it was disgusting, but Thomas could feel Kip _everywhere_, and it, fuck. It was so good.

Kip grabbed a fistful of Thomas' hair and rolled them onto their sides. He sat up and pulled his own shirt off over his head. Thomas reached out and ran his fingers across his chest, then around his waist when Kip climbed back on top of him.

They kissed for another few beats before Kip began to kiss down his neck and throat. He bunched up Thomas' shirt and pushed it up, but didn't move to take it off. He kissed Thomas' chest and nuzzled against his nipple, and Thomas gasped involuntarily. He could feel Kip's grin against his skin, then didn't feel much more than the blood rushing south as Kip gave that area a little more attention, all teeth and tongue.

"You or me first?" Kip asked. He looked up at Thomas, his face flushed but his eyes still swollen, and Thomas said, "Me."

Kip laid back down next to him and hungrily pulled the rest of Thomas' shirt off as Thomas straddled him. Then he ran his hands down Thomas' chest and sides, a grin on his face.

"I will never get tired of this," he said, then leaned up to meet Thomas halfway.

Thomas had never been with someone who was loud before. He'd always had to have been sneaky, quiet and quick in the shadows or behind a closed door. But from the moment Thomas cupped him through his jeans, Kip was groaning and grunting and saying nonsensical things, and it was so much noise that Thomas almost felt overwhelmed. Kip had no problem asking for what he wanted, or telling Thomas how much he liked what he was doing, and it almost made Thomas want to blush. He was sure that in the course of the few minutes it took to get Kip off, he had been praised more than he had his entire life combined.

Kip was vocal up until the moment he came, which he did so silently that, for a moment, Thomas thought something was wrong. He looked up from where he was situated between Kip's legs and he was relieved to see Kip's chest still heaving. Thomas kissed his way back up his stomach and his chest to where Kip was lying quite still.

"You could have spit," Kip said, eyes lidded. He reached out and wiped off Thomas' bottom lip with his thumb. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to." Thomas leaned down to kiss his chin, savoring the completely blissed-out state Kip was in. It was taking a lot of willpower to save the moment and not grind against him. He was painfully hard. "He would have."

"You don't have to do what you think he'd do." Kip looked vaguely like he wanted to be frustrated, but didn't have the willpower to do so. He shifted slightly. "Give me a minute and I'll return the favor."

"You don't have to." Thomas rolled over next to him so they were laying side by side, though he turned his head so he could still see Kip. "You don't have to do what you'd do for him."

Kip's mouth twitched slightly. "I'm not doing it because I'd do it for him. I want to. I _really_ want to, but I have Barrow-induced paralysis at the moment so just shh."

He spent another moment or so just lying there, mouth open and eyes closed, and Thomas was just starting to consider jerking himself off when he suddenly rolled over right on top of Thomas.

"I thought you were sleeping," Thomas said, smiling, and Kip kissed across the bridge of his nose.

"I'm the blowjob ninja," he said, kissing Thomas on the mouth. "I rise from the ashes of post-coital bliss when you least expect it."

Then he licked down the expanse of Thomas' body, leaving a trail of kissing, and proceeded to blow Thomas so hard that he felt a little dizzy afterwards. Kip appeared at his shoulder again, grinning smugly.

"Yes?" he said, and Thomas said, "_Yes_."

While Thomas recovered, Kip got up and recovered his boxers from the end of the bed, then shimmied them up Thomas' legs. He leaned down and kissed Thomas' hip, and Thomas would have definitely needed to have been taken care of again had he still embodied the youthful virility of his younger years. Instead, he just watched Kip pull on his own shorts before sidling off into the loo.

He came back with a little cup of mouthwash, which Thomas thought was really thoughtful. He swished and spit back into the cup, and Kip grinned at him.

"You rarely like to move afterwards," he said, disappearing back into the loo to get rid of the waste. "I barely fancy kissing you in the morning with your awful breath; imagine if you had your awful morning breath on top of aged cum."

Kip climbed back into bed and pulled the blankets up over them. He threw one arm across Thomas' chest and rested his cheek on his shoulder, looking up at him.

"I know I'm a lot to take in," he said quietly. "I hope I didn't overwhelm you."

"You did," Thomas said. "But not in a bad way." He gave Kip a sardonic smile. "You're the first man I've spent the night with that I'm expecting to still be here when I wake up."

Kip furrowed his brow at that. "That's not fair. That's not fair at all. Who would leave someone as lovely as you alone in bed?"

"They never quite left _me_ alone." He shifted slightly so that one of Kip's legs was thrown over both of his own. "I really had no choice but to leave them. All of my… sexual encounters have either been a quick fling on my days off or, uh. With some of my employer's more… aristocratic friends. So that was even quicker. I usually sucked them off, then got them dressed and ready for dinner. Or had a little roll with them in the sheets, but had to be back downstairs before anyone noticed I was gone."

Kip ran his fingers through the smattering of hair of Thomas' chest. "Well. You don't have to worry about me. I'm not going anywhere." The room was silent for a moment, and Thomas felt himself slipping slowly into sleep. Then Kip added, "I'll always return the favor, too," and Thomas couldn't help laughing. Kip sat up a little bit to escape the violent shaking of Thomas' shoulders, but he grinned down at him and pressed a little bit closer against his side.

"I don't want to fall asleep," Thomas said after a while. "I don't want to go back to the hunting lodge."

Kip nuzzled against his neck and Thomas could feel him sigh. His speech was slightly sleep-slurred, as if he was already half-dozing. "Wish you could just stay here. Go to sleep with me and wake up with me. Never have to serve or bow or be scared again. Never have to live two lives or leave me…" He trailed off, then jerked awake again. "I love you, Thomas. Take that with you when you go back. And then come back to me, and when you wake up I'll make you breakfast, and…"

Thomas couldn't find it in himself to resent Kip for falling asleep, but he still dreading the insistent drifting of his eyelids. But he thought of the promise of Kip in the morning and quashed down the constant fear that he would not come back and allowed himself to close his eyes and succumb to sleep.

xxx

Spending every other day with Kip was not enough to dull the nasty edge that had defined Thomas for so long. In fact, having to wait a full day between falling asleep in his arms and waking up to his warm mouth actually put him in an even worse mood than usual. But he knew how to tone it down around the right people and he knew when and when he didn't need to keep his mouth shut. Whether or not he chose to follow his instincts was generally spur of the moment.

This was precisely why, on the morning of George Crawley's birthday party, he was ousted and sent out to the gardens to sulk and smoke. Gorden wasn't long in following him, and the two of them stood against the low garden wall, looking out at the surrounding woods.

"They're all too sensitive for their own good," Gorden said eventually, voice muffled as the cigarette bobbed in his mouth. "They're awfully silly over the strangest of things."

"They'll be sore until they need our help." Thomas concentrated on blowing a smoke ring, then watched it drift away towards the clouds. "When it comes time for the birthday luncheon, they'll be begging us to come back and help."

"Only the rich would bring a child to a hunting lodge to celebrate his first birthday." Gorden laughed heavily and shook his head. "If I had that much money, I'd want to spend it on my _child_, not use him as an excuse to spend it on myself."

Thomas couldn't help it – he returned to the fantasy of River. He could see Kip as a papa. A great one, too. Thomas would wake up to the warmth of three other bodies in his bed: Kip, near as always; a dog draped across their feet; and a small child wedged between the two of them, sleeping long enough for Thomas to steal a kiss from Kip.

What a dream.

He and Gorden finished their cigarettes and ground them out under the heels of their shoes, then went back into the kitchen to see where they could help. Mrs. Karena gave them both a disapproving sort of look, but Gorden seemed to be used to her glares, and he just walked right on past.

The families went out for a while after breakfast, leaving time for Thomas and the rest of the servants to prepare the dining room for the little celebration. Thomas and Hal laid out a new tablecloth and piled the gifts in the corner while the maids did a quick and final clean.

All was well until Petunia, who was cleaning the fireplace, accidentally knocked the wood off its platform. The blackened piece of timber rolled across the rug, leaving a dark, ashy trail in its path. Petunia, who had jumped out of the way to avoid the log, had fallen back onto the hearth and had subsequently been covered in a thick layer of ash.

The log hit the leg of the table and the room went completely silent. There were less than ten minutes until they were to start serving luncheon, and there was no way the floor, the fireplace, and Petunia could all be cleaned up in that short of a time. Wherever Petunia went, they would have to clean up her footsteps.

Then, very defiantly, Petunia said, "Shit."

It wasn't the first time Thomas had ever heard a woman swear, but it was the first time he had heard one do so in a room full of people she was very aware of. Everyone else seemed to be shocked into motion and the bustle started up again. They all rushed forward to sweep the whole mess under the rug.

Hal had Petunia take off her shoes, then wrapped her in the extra tablecloth. Thomas thought it was a horrendous idea, but he didn't doubt it would keep even more trails from being made, so he didn't say anything. When the footman returned, he bore some sort of vinegary mixture that he poured over the affected areas. Then he and Alfred fell to their knees and tried to scrub up the dark spots.

"This is a really, really old carpet," Hal said under his breath. If Thomas hadn't been sweeping off the hearth close by, he wouldn't have heard it. "I could get sacked for this."

"Sacked for something you didn't do?"

"Sacked for not doin' my job well enough. 'm supposed to keep this place spotless. When Mr. Travers goes, I'm going to be butler here. Didn't you know? I need to keep my ducks in a row, else I'll get sacked for sure."

"You're going to be butler?" Alfred stopped scrubbing to look up at Hal and Thomas cleared his throat, glaring down at him until he returned to his task.

"Yeah," Hal said. On his haunches, he hopped a few feet down to focus on another part of the rug. "Don't you? I thought that was every footman's dream."

There was a silence from Alfred that Thomas certainly didn't like. He already had had to combat Bates for the position of His Lordship's valet; there was no way in hell he was going to let a giant oaf get in his way of being at the top. He wouldn't hesitate to sabotage him like he'd already done before. But if Alfred started to show interest in what would rightfully be Thomas' position once Mr. Carson stepped down, well. It was going to be war.

The ash mark was not completely wiped up by the time the sound of footsteps filled the hall outside, and Thomas had no choice but to whisper, "Just put the chair over it. They're coming. You're supposed to be downstairs serving."

He crossed the room and took his place at the sidebar, and both families burst through the door in a flurry of motion and noise. They all took their seats around the table. By some miracle, nobody noticed the ash (though Lady Jepsen's shoe would be coated in it by the time the luncheon was over – but they had to choose their battles).

The luncheon was a whole three hours' worth of cooing over baby George. Everyone discussed how successful they expected the infant to be, how they hoped he would be just like his father and grandfather. The child looked a substantial amount like Mr. Crawley, but he had Lady Mary's dark features. They all thought so highly of the boy, had such hopes and dreams for him, yet he could barely speak.

Meanly, Thomas wondered if they would love him quite so much if, one day, he proclaimed to his mother in a quiet whisper: "I like men." Just like Thomas had. Would Lady Mary show the love and comfort Thomas' mother had not? Would she hold his head close to her chest and assure him she loved him anyway? He hoped, for George Crawley's sake, that his eye was always drawn to women.

While George opened his gifts, Sybbie waddled her way over to Thomas and looked up at him curiously with big, brown eyes. In the shadows of the room, Thomas could almost imagine her hair being black. He almost wished that Lady Sybil's child was his own – that way, he would always have a reminder of how wonderful a woman she had been. And Sybbie would tug on the bottoms of his trousers and come willingly into Thomas' arms when he squatted, instead of turning her back when Mr. Branson called and stumbling back towards him, which she did presently. Thomas watched her go, wondering what it would be like to be loved so unconditionally.

But then he remembered Kip and all of the things he had whispered to Thomas the night before. How, even after Thomas had told him that their whole life together was just a dream, he hadn't left. He'd welcomed Thomas into his bed despite them being practically strangers. And yet, they weren't.

Thomas had never experienced such love in his life, and it scared him. That realization, right there at the sidebar of George Crawley's first birthday party, helped him sympathize, just a little, with Jimmy. It was overwhelming, the sudden feeling of being welcomed home every day. Of having somebody to come home to in the first place, somebody to touch and hold and not worry about them leaving.

He knew he could never wake up with Jimmy like he had with Kip, because Jimmy would always wake up scared. Jimmy would always push him away and run, then pull him back in again. He was enticing, he was dangerous, he was a point of instability that Thomas knew he couldn't resist. God, of course he couldn't. He had seen the passion burning in Jimmy's eyes, the kind of passion that makes men like Jimmy grow bored with men like Thomas. Jimmy wanted adventure, but only to a point, and Thomas wanted love. Not the kind of _love_ he knew Jimmy would end up with: a handful of children and a wife he only stuck by because of their litter.

Thomas didn't want to pretend. He couldn't. He'd lived all of his life in fear and he refused to cling to that any longer. He might spent his days counting down the hours until he could close his eyes and escape back to Kip and their little London flat, but he wasn't about to make himself unhappy just to make others more comfortable.

Once the family had finished luncheon and retired to the sitting room, Thomas helped Hal and Alfred carry George's new belongings up to the nursery.

"Blimey," Hal grunted, struggling to carry a rocking horse up the stairs. "This thing probably weighs more than everything I own. It certainly costs more."

"You're not the heir to an estate, neither," Thomas responded. He pushed open the door and turned his face to make another remark to Hal, but stopped dead in his tracks.

Clarice jumped up off of Mr. Linden so fast that Thomas almost feared she would get whiplash. Almost being the operative word. He looked down at Mr. Linden, briefly appreciated how disheveled he looked, then backed pedaled out of the room.

Hal and Alfred stood staring at him with wide eyes, looking insanely unsure of what to do. Thomas felt rather shaken himself, though it didn't come as a surprise. He ushered the footmen off to the side and waited with them there until Mr. Linden emerged from the nursery. He cleared his throat a bit awkwardly when he found them standing there, then hurried down the stairs to join the rest of the party.

Hal whistled at Clarice when the three of them entered, and she blushed and made a rude gesture at him.

"Go to hell," she said. She finished clearing up, then stormed out of the room.

Hal watched her go, looking amused. "Blimey! Imagine getting on someone rich. I wonder if she gets paid?"

"She's not a whore, Hal," Thomas said dryly. Honestly, he didn't care whether or not she actually was; he was defending himself in his own little way. He'd spent plenty of time rolling about on silk sheets with no payment whatsoever. He probably wouldn't have complained if they'd slipped him a note every now and then, though. Probably would have helped soften the blow of being left behind.

"I wasn't implying that, _Mr. Barrow_. I was wondering if _she_ got a little something extra on the side for giving him _his_ little something extra on the side."

Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to look annoyed. He wanted to laugh. Hal was a clever little chap, and he supposed Kip might like him. He could see the two of them watching one of Kip's conspiracy programs together. He shook that thought of out his head and said, "Go down and clean up, the both of you."

Dinner was substantially more uneventful, though Mr. Linden seemed a little bit more stilted around the three of them than before. It made Thomas smirk, though he did feel a little bit of pity for his wife, who sat on his right, chatting amiably with Lady Edith.

God, Kip had turned him into a sap. He was starting to _feel _things for _other people_. He made a face of disgust at his own behavior. When he looked up, he found Mr. Travers staring at him from the opposite end of the sidebar with a disapproving look.

He didn't get back to his bed until late that night, much later than the past two. He climbed eagerly back into the sheets, pulling the blanket up around him. He had never much cared for sleep; he thought it almost a waste of time. If he could have gone without it, he would have. But closing his eyes meant so much more than restoring his energy – it meant restoring his hope. It meant restoring his will to live.

xxx

Thomas woke up to an empty bed. For a moment, he panicked; then Kip stuck his head out from the loo and smiled around his toothbrush.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," he said. "How was your day?"

Thomas rolled onto his side and bunched Kip's pillow beneath his head.

"Boring. How was your night?"

"Don't remember." He disappeared around the doorway and Thomas heard him spit into the sink. "I think you broke me."

"It's not like you and Thomas never did it before."

"True. But we hadn't done it in _weeks_." Kip came back out and sat on the edge of the bed, pushing a cup of mouthwash into Thomas' hands. "He was so busy with that gorram presentation and he didn't want to distract himself with my hot body so he accidentally punished _me_. Now drink that so I can climb on top of you."

Thomas swished and spit, and as soon as he set the cup on the bedside table, Kip was straddling him and rolling his hips down. Thomas hissed through his teeth and grabbed Kip's side.

"You could give me a second to wake up."

"I was deprived of touching your naked body for weeks," he said. "You can't let me blow you and then expect for me to not want to hump you. It's going to take a while again to build up my sex resistance. Before your dumb project, we only screwed like twice a week. But it's been _weeks_ and now you have to make all of that time up to me."

He leaned down and kissed Thomas, opened-mouthed and filthy, and if Thomas wasn't aroused before, he was now. They kissed sloppily, one of Kip's hands in his hair and Thomas' on the small of his back, building a steady rhythm with their hips.

Kip pulled away suddenly and ducked down next to Thomas' neck, whispering, "If you don't want this, don't be afraid to tell me," like he was embarrassed.

Thomas rolled them both over and looked down at Kip's flushed face. He kissed the side of his mouth. "Why wouldn't I want this?" He wanted it so bad.

Kip shook his head and tucked his hand around the back of Thomas' neck to pull him into a kiss.

"I'm not ready for fucking yet," Kip panted some time later, looking down at Thomas between his knees. "It took me a very long time for me to be comfortable enough to do it with you and I – I don't want you to have to see me like that yet."

to have to see me like that yet."

"Can I ask?" Thomas leaned up to kiss the sharp jut of his hip.

"I had a boyfriend once," he said, and Thomas backed off a little to let him talk. "It was completely consensual, don't worry, he just – he wasn't exactly careful. It hurt a lot more than it should have and it sort of scared me bit. It's been – it's been a very long time since I was with him, but it still scares me sometimes. So. Just give me a little bit of time."

"Of course." He leaned down to kiss along Kip's stomach, testing the waters again. He slid one hand up Kip's naked thigh and Kip tightened his grip on Thomas' hair, suddenly, his hips stuttering. Thomas took him into his mouth and felt every single one of Kip's moans right in the pit of his stomach.

Later, Kip was lying in his vegetative state, blissed out and quiet.

"It's the Barrowmones," he said. Thomas glanced over at him.

"What?"

Kip made a frustrated sound and went to flop onto his stomach, then aborted the movement. "That's the first time in four years you haven't rolled your eyes at my joke and you don't even know what pheromones are. You're hopeless."

"Sorry," Thomas said, wriggling his hips up a bit as Kip clambered on top of him. "My mind's on other things right now."

"Yes," Kip said, dropping some of his weight against Thomas' navel. Thomas groaned and arched into Kip's touch. "I suppose we'd better do something about that, shouldn't we?"

Matt arrived at lunchtime carrying a handful of greasy looking paper bags and a photo album. The first thing he did after he'd set the bags on the counter was give Kip a very long hug.

"I'm so sorry, Josh," he said. Thomas felt vaguely possessive and didn't relax until Matt let go. Then Matt was approaching him, and he steeled himself for a hug, but he only stuck out his hand and said, "Hey, Thomas. I'm Matt."

They shook hands and Thomas stood tall without even realizing it.

"Why don't we sit and eat?" Kip sat down at the fold-up table he had dragged out from behind the bookshelves earlier. Kip said that they didn't usually have people over for meals, and they ate at the bar when it was just two of them, anyway, so they always put it up when it was just the two of them.

Thomas stood at the side of the table for a long moment before sitting down. It was one thing to sit down in the presence of Mr. Crawley – it was another thing entirely to call him Matt and share a ketchup dish with him.

Thomas' chest felt tight, and he was painfully aware that his breath had become a bit wheezy. He tried to ignore it and focus instead on the conversation.

"I don't want to go Regina Newly on you here, but… you don't remember anything? At all?" Matt was looking at him with a concerned look, his brow furrowed and his eyes bright and blue. Thomas glanced over at Kip and shook his head.

"Nothing."

Matt rubbed a hand across his face. "Wow. It's – this isn't sinking in for me. I've known you for, hell, sixteen years. We, uh, we went to university together."

"Kip filled me in on most of the basics," Thomas said. He tore a chip apart and ate half of it. He felt on edge around Matt, like he was suddenly going to announce that he really was the heir to Lord Grantham's estate and this had all just been a big set up, and then they would cart him off to jail where he would remain until he died. It was dumb to think, but Matt was just a reminder of Downton, and when Thomas came here, he tried his best to forget.

"Details, then," Matt said, wiping his hands off on a napkin. "I brought a book of photographs from university. We can look at them when you're done eating if you'd like."

Thomas nodded at him and met Kip's gaze from across the table. Kip smiled slightly, looking sheepish and worried and like he would like to do nothing more than wrap his arms around Thomas. Thomas looked down at his food and tried not to wish he was doing just that.

His chest had started to ache a great deal, and he winced slightly the next time he breathed in. Kip leaned forward a bit, looking concerned, as Thomas struggled to take a deep breath.

"You okay, love?"

Thomas nodded. "Chest's just a little tight, that's all."

"It's probably just your asthma. Let me go get the inhaler." He stood up from the table and went off into the bedroom, leaving Thomas alone with Matt, who smiled at him through a mouthful of food.

"Josh is fantastic," he said. "Really. I've lived through…" He did a quick count in his head. "…probably three lasting relationships of yours, and he's my favorite. Even if you don't remember him… he treats you really well. You don't deserve him." Matt smiled at him in a way that implied it had been a joke, but Thomas couldn't help but agree. He knew he didn't deserve Kip in any way, shape, or form. Kip was much too good for someone as awful as Thomas. He feared for the day when Kip realized it, too.

Kip emerged from the bedroom holding a small object, which he pressed into Thomas' hand. "You put that end in your mouth and inhale when you press this bit down. Then hold your breath."

Thomas did as instructed and immediately choked on the bitter gas in his mouth. He coughed for a moment, grimacing at the taste, and tried again. It was like smoking for the first time – he just had to get used to it. The second time, it worked, and he set the inhaler next to his plate.

"It's just mild asthma," Kip said. "You only get it sometimes. Oh – bollocks. It's the cat hair on Matty's shirt. I forgot about your allergy medication."

They finished their hamburgers and chips – from Thomas' favorite takeaway burger shop, or so he was told – then moved to the couch. While Matt settled back into the cushions, Thomas watched Kip over his shoulder as he went into the kitchen to make tea.

"This was our room," Matt said, pointing to a slightly blurry photograph. "Your bed was the one on the left. We had – we had a great time, really."

Matt went on to tell him a great list of stories of all the things they had done together in college. Anecdotes from parties, reports about the people they had been friends with and what had happened to them since graduation, and an epic about a very drunken escapade that he only half-remembered the details from.

"I guess you had to be there," he finished lamely, and turned the page.

The first picture on the left caught Thomas' attention immediately and he had reached out before he realized what he was doing. He traced the outline of Edward Courtenay's face, so young and unbroken. He was leaning into Thomas' side, the both of them grinning and looking so young, so happy. But even in the photo, he could see Edward's empty gaze.

"Do you recognize him?" Matt asked excitedly. "That's Edward. You dated for a while at uni until he" – Matt cut himself off and cleared his throat awkwardly.

"He offed himself."

"Yes."

Kip appeared at the back of the couch suddenly. "You've got a picture of Edward? I've never seen him before. You've been hiding him away from me all this time." He leaned forward a bit, his hand on the back of Thomas' neck, and whistled low. "I was hoping he'd be ugly. You always seem to go for the nice looking men. Everyone needs to have _one_ fug."

"If you can't spot the crazy person on the bus, it's you," Matt replied easily and Kip made a noise at him.

Matt went on for a while longer, pointing to people Thomas didn't know and telling him about things that, honestly, maybe This Thomas would have liked to forget. Kip brought them all tea, then sat close to Thomas, their thighs pressed together, and Thomas felt incrementally better.

Kip got up to use the loo during a long-winded story about the night they broke into the science laboratories, and Matt watched him go. Thomas felt a little bit annoyed and wondered why This Thomas hadn't knocked out his teeth yet. But as soon as they heard the loo door close, Matt dug in his pocket and pulled out a small black box.

"Here," he said, pressing it into Thomas' hand. "I was going to give it to you at work, but…"

"What is it?"

"You ordered a ring," Matt said, his voice low. "It took you forever to save up for it, because you _insisted_ on getting it custom made. You could only stash away a little bit at a time or else Josh would have noticed. You ordered it just before Christmas. I don't think you had a plan yet. I figured when you were able to hold it, it would sort of… all click for you. That you were going to do it."

The ring was a silver band, textured to give it an almost scaly look. Thomas supposed it must have been done that with a small hammer of some sort. He turned it over in his hands, his fingers skimming across the inscription inside. _Reality is better than my dreams._

"Why did I wait so long? It's been five years."

"You've had your share of troubles." Matt became suddenly very interested in his fingernails. "You've got a dick ex who likes to come around every so often, and he really messes with Josh's head. Thinks he's the one who should be with you. Josh's called the police on him more than once. He's offered to take both of you, though, so at least he's willing to share." Matt smiled a little bit. "Nah, mate. Life just got in the way. You turned around to find that you had been with the same guy for five years. Almost, anyway."

The toilet flushed in the other room and Thomas scrambled to put the ring away, shoving it down into the couch cushions until he could come back for it later. Matt cleared his throat and started gesticulating wildly.

"I don't remember what I was on about," he said. "Fuck, this is worse than someone saying, 'Just act natural'."

Kip emerged from the bedroom again just as Matt decided to take a large gulp of tea. He raised his eyebrows at the two of them.

"You're not plotting, are you?" he asked.

"Only a Sophie B. Hawkins dance," Matt said, then deadpanned, "Whoops."

It was nearly dinner by the time Matt looked at his watch, exclaimed, "Blimey, Mary will be home soon," and stood up. This time, he just bumped fists with Kip, and gave Thomas an awkward one-armed hug.

"Take as much time off as you need, man," he said. "I'll make sure everything's taken care of. Don't worry about it, all right?"

Once he was gone, Kip went into the kitchen to make them some dinner. Thomas stayed seated on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, trying to take it all in. He had two whole lives before and ahead of him and the thought was completely, undeniably overwhelming.

He dug the little black box out from beneath the cushions and went into their bedroom. He didn't know where to hide it. They shared the dresser, so Kip was bound to find it there. Thomas turned in a circle, looking over all the bookshelves and wondering where he could keep it.

At the very top of the bookshelf closest to the closet was a blue ceramic box. Thomas reached for it, stretching his arm as far as it would go, and slid it off the shelf. He crossed to the bed, sat down, and carefully lifted off the lid. There were several notes stuffed inside, all carefully bound together with a rubber band. Thomas supposed these were their savings. He rested the ring box on top of the money before returning the police box back to its place.

"I just heated up some soup," Kip said apologetically when Thomas emerged from the bedroom. "Honestly, if you don't rediscover your inner Gordon Ramsey, we're in big trouble."

Thomas walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, watching Kip stir the pot's contents.

"Are you okay, love?" he asked quietly. "I know it was a lot to take in."

"I've got two different lives." He ducked his head. "I want to be here, but every time I go to sleep, I'm going to go back. There's no way to stop it, but I wish there was. I wish I could stay here with you. Go to sleep with you and wake up and still be here."

Kip stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Thomas' shoulders, squeezing him tight. Thomas relaxed into his grip and pulled Kip against him. This is what he had needed since Matt walked through the front door. This and nothing else.

The soup started to make popping sounds from the pot, and Kip pulled away to tend to it.

"I'll always be here when you wake up," he said, stirring with a wooden spoon. "No matter how many different lives you live when you close your eyes, whenever you open them again, I'll be there. I promise."

"I love you," Thomas said quietly. Kip turned to smile at him, then went back to pouring the soup into two separate mugs.

"I love you, too," he said. "Now we're going to sit on the couch and I'm going to introduce you to the best American show you will ever watch on telly. Your problems will seem small and insignificant once you learn the hardships of the Winchester boys."

Kip kissed him softly on the mouth as he pressed one of the mugs into his hands.

Kip moved onto Thomas' pillow that night, lying even closer than usual. He smoothed the hair out of Thomas' face and smiled at him. His knees were set between Thomas' and his toes were running up and down his ankle.

"Sleep well," he whispered. Thomas could feel the rumble of his words through the press of their chests. He wound his arms around Kip's back. "Dream of me."

xxx

Thomas did not expect the question to come, so when it did, he respectfully asked Mr. Crawley to repeat himself.

"I said, would you like to come hunting with us today?"

Thomas didn't necessarily care for hunting or for going off with the Crawley family, but he wasn't about to refuse an offer from Mr. Crawley. It's not like he would be doing any hunting anyway; he'd probably be toting around guns or spare bullets. Besides, Mr. Linden would be going with as well, and Thomas could spend his time making the man as uncomfortable as possible.

"Thank you, sir," he responded. He suppressed a grin when Mr. Linden shifted in his seat.

"Fantastic," Mr. Crawley said. "It's settled, then. I don't suppose you have any hunting clothes?"

"No, sir."

"Go down to the cabins after breakfast. I'm sure they'll be able to find you something."

After he made sure that Alfred and Hal had cleared correctly (with Mr. Travers hanging over his shoulder, resentful that Thomas seemed to fancy himself in charge; which he did, of course), Thomas followed Gorden's directions to the hunting cabins. He was the only person Thomas would trust not purposefully lead him to a cave of dragons or something of that sort.

Sure enough, about a hundred meters away from the house itself, the woods broke out into a large clearing. There were several little cabins there, all wood, and all of which sat in a semi-circle. On the far side of the clearing sat the stables, and Thomas could see three men preparing the horses.

The largest cabin had a sign hammered into the dirt out front proclaiming it to be the main office, so Thomas went up and knocked on the door. A voice called out to him from within, so he entered.

There was a thin blond man sitting at a little desk covered in papers. He smiled at Thomas when he walked in and said, "How can I help you?" He looked vaguely familiar, but Thomas didn't know where he'd seen him before, or even if he had.

"I need some hunting gear to ride out with the family," he said. The man gave him a once over before standing up and entering a little room to his immediate right. Thomas approached the desk, setting his fingertips on the wood, and craned his neck to try and see what the man was up to.

He emerged less than a moment later holding a tailored hunting suit. Thomas raised an eyebrow, impressed, and accepted it when the man handed it over.

"Bring it back when you're done," he said. "Why are you going out there, anyway?"

"I suppose they got tired of looking at Lord Jepsen's man." He smiled when the man laughed and let himself gloat that Bates hadn't been asked.

"Ugly bugger, isn't he?" The man sat down again and shoved some papers aside. He pointed with his pen to another door. "You can get all changed in there. If you don't want to go back up to the main house, you can leave your clothes here. What's the name?"

"Mr. Barrow."

The man scrawled his name out on a piece of paper and set it aside. "All right, Mr. Barrow. Just give them to me once you're done and I'll take care of them."

Thomas went into the small loo and changed quickly out of his livery and into the new suit. It fit him well, and Thomas nodded, impressed, at the man's skill. He smoothed a hand over his hair, frowning when a lock of hair came loose.

He stuck his head out the door. "You don't happen to have any pomade?"

"Second drawer on the left."

Thomas smiled to himself and fixed his hair, then appraised himself once more in the mirror. He looked rather nice, though he'd never quite liked hunting gear. He wondered what Kip would think and smoothed down the material over his hips.

He folded his clothes and brought them out to the man, who looked substantially more wired than before. He looked up when Thomas came out of the loo and reached out for his clothes.

"Thanks," he said distractedly. "We keep all the guns and whatnot in the cabin next door. Just go out and go to your right. My father's in charge over there, so you'll be in good hands."

"Thanks," Thomas said. He took one last look at his clothes, which had been set aside atop a pile of papers, then went outside again. He could hear the horses, now, getting more and more agitated. He paid them no mind, sparing just a glance at the men trying to calm them down.

The door to the weapons cabin was open, so Thomas went inside without knocking. There was an older man, probably the tailor's father, loading a bag full of guns. He looked up when Thomas came in.

"You going with the Crawleys and Lindens?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Fantastic. Have you carried guns before?"

"No," Thomas said.

"Well." The man closed the bag up and pushed it across the counter towards him. Thomas wondered why he was being so trusting; he could be any loon from the wood coming in and claiming to be part of the family. "Just don't drop the bag, okay?"

"I'm not an invalid," he responded. He picked up the bag and swung it over his shoulder, tensing slightly when he felt the barrels against his back. "I can hold a bag of guns."

"Don't come crying to me when you shoot your foot off," the man said, turning away.

Thomas wasn't sure where to go next, so he wandered over to the stables to see how things were coming along. Once the horses were ready, they could move out to the main house. There were six tethered to a pole, all wandering around and snuffling. Three more were standing next to the stable men, who were brushing them down and checking their ears.

Thomas stood next to the one closest to him. The beast was a deep chestnut color and was truly beautiful. It looked over at him with its wild eyes and whinnied quietly. The groom came around from its back to make sure the horse was okay, and it –

"Kip," he said, surprised.

Kip looked at him, confused, and it became increasingly apparent that he was not Kip. Thomas allowed himself to rake his eyes over the man's body: he was still slim and slight, though he was quite a deal skinnier than Thomas' Kip. He had on a nice vest and trousers, though there was a thick coating of horse hair on the legs. He also wore a flat cap, which he shifted a bit to look up at Thomas.

"No, sorry," he said. "You must be thinking of someone else."

"Yes," Thomas said. So this must have been how Kip had felt, but a thousand times worse. It was strange to stand in front of him and have the advantage, to know how he took his tea and what he looked like spread out on the bed, and to not have him know these things in return. "You look like a friend of mine. I'm Mr. Barrow, by the way."

Kip reached out to shake his hand. "I'm Joshua. Are you up from the main house?"

"Yes. I'm under-butler to Lord Grantham."

Joshua looked impressed. "And look at me, groom to a hunting lodge outside of London."

"Uniform looks nice," Thomas said, bravely, and then cursed himself. He had to be more careful. This wasn't Kip, and it certainly wasn't safe to chat up the stable boys. But Joshua seemed to catch his drift and Thomas found himself the object of Joshua's gaze.

"Yours, too," he said, and smiled. Then he turned to the horse, resting one hand on its shoulder. "This is Hudson."

Daringly, Thomas stepped closer to Joshua and slid his hand along Hudson's neck, coming to a rest close to Joshua's fingers. Slowly, Joshua's hand nudged upward, his pinky finger sliding along the side of Thomas' hand. Then he looked over at Thomas, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth.

"Joshua," one of the other grooms called, and they both jumped. "Are you just about through?"

"Yes, Marc," he responded. Thomas almost leaned forward and nudged their noses together, but stopped himself just in time. This wasn't Kip. But Joshua was looking at him like he probably wouldn't mind if Thomas kissed him anyway.

"Duty calls," Thomas said, smirking.

Thomas was given a horse to lead, one for Mr. Crawley named Calamity, and he and the other hunting staff walked in a group back to the main house. A group of dogs barked and nipped around their feet, and Thomas felt like he shoved one off his knee with every step. Joshua stayed on the right side of his horse so he could talk to Thomas on the short trek back.

"Where's Lord Grantham's estate?" he asked.

"Yorkshire. Up near Ripon and Thirsk."

"Never been."

"Have you lived here your whole life?"

Joshua smiled at him. "Yes. My family's been working on this estate for years. My father looks after the guns and my brother's the tailor of sorts. I'm sure you met them."

Thomas remembered Kip talking about how his father had passed away, and how broken up he had been, and he immediately wished he had spent more time talking to Mr. Brice. He wished he had been a little bit kinder and more understanding.

"Yes. Very nice men."

"My mum and sister work down in the village."

Thomas thought back to the long car ride. "Isn't that far?"

"No," he said, and pointed behind him at the line of trees. "It's probably fifty yards beyond. They try to hide it to make it seem like you're a bit more secluded. The town's quite small, very quiet. Nobody puts up a fuss."

"I can't imagine that being, not with some of the people I've come across. They would put up a right fuss if the grass was the wrong shade of green."

Joshua chuckled in agreement just as they were drawing up to the front of the main house. Thomas handed his reign to Joshua, who gripped it tightly and smiled at him, then went up to tell Travers he could send them out.

The men filed out of the house in their hunting gear and everyone set to work getting them mounted. Hal appeared with a big basket, which he handed off to one of the other grooms, then disappeared before anyone could see him. Thomas thought grudgingly to himself that Hal would make a fine butler one day.

They rode out to the east, where the woods came to an end and a field lay out in front of them. The men dismounted and stood chatting at the mouth, while Joshua took a bag from one of the other grooms and started out to the edge of the field. Thomas roughly traded his bag to said groom and hurried after Joshua.

"I thought they were shooting pheasants?" Thomas said. Joshua looked over his shoulder and seemed pleased that he had company. He slowed his pace a little.

"They're doing clock today," he said. He shifted what he was dragging along and opened it a little to show Thomas. There were probably five hundred little clay discs. "We used to use real birds, but they outlawed that last year. Now we make our own targets, but we have to charge the players a little bit extra because it really adds up."

"I can imagine." They stopped a good distance away from where a man was explaining the rules to the gentlemen. Joshua propped his bag up against a tree and stood close to it, two already in his hand. "So this is what you do?" he said. "Take care of horses and throw clay around?"

Joshua grinned at him. "And what do you do? Watch people eat and then take their clothes off afterwards?"

Thomas was about to give him a cheeky comeback, but he was interrupted by a shout of "READY!" coming from the mouth of the field. Joshua yelled back in response and everyone took their positions.

Joshua threw one target out and it arched high over the field. It was halfway to the ground before it was knocked out of the air, and Mr. Linden made a triumphant sound. This continued for a while, the cycle of throw-shoot-celebrate. Thomas enjoyed being next to Joshua even though they couldn't talk over the sound of the shooting. He enjoyed being around Joshua or Kip or whatever incarnation of the man the world could create.

"You want to throw?" Joshua asked. He pressed a target into Thomas' hand before he could respond, his fingers dancing across Thomas' pulse point before he pulled away. Thomas launched it into the air and watched it sail across before being blown to pieces.

He turned to Joshua, laughing.

"Is there any chance I could see you tonight?" Joshua asked. He paused to throw another target. "I would love to talk to you more, Mr. Barrow."

"Yes," Thomas said before he could even think about it. It was only after the words were out that he hesitated. He thought back to Kip weeping over choices, about how the Thomas before was so like the Thomas now, but also so different. He wondered if it would be adulterous to go to bed with Joshua and wake up next to Kip.

He was about to turn back to Joshua and maybe change his mind when Mr. Crawley dropped his shotgun.

There was a resounding bang, and Thomas felt the bullet go right through him. He grunted, tensing at the shoulders, then calmly placed his hand over the hole in his chest. Joshua was looking around, trying to figure out where it had gone, and Thomas wished the ground could swallow him up so he didn't have to lose composure.

But the pain became too much and he fell to the ground, gripping at his chest as the blood spilled through his fingers. It was going to ruin the hunting suit, and he cursed himself for not returning it cleanly to Joshua's brother.

Joshua shouted out to the others and dropped to his knees beside Thomas.

"Mr. Barrow," he said, peeling aside Thomas' fingers so he could see the wound. "It's going to be all right. You're going to be fine. The bullet went straight through."

But the blood would not stop, no matter how tight they both pressed against the wounds. By the time the others made it up to them, Thomas was starting to see black around the edges.

Mr. Crawley dropped down into a crouch, looking horrified. "Mr. Barrow, I'm so sorry. God. What can I do?"

One of the grooms stepped around him and tore the top of Thomas' shirt, revealing the bullet hole. Thomas didn't look.

"Oh," Lord Grantham said, shocked. "Is there… anything we can do?"

The groom sat back on his haunches and Joshua pushed some of the sweat-slicked hair out of Thomas' eyes. Thomas was beginning to shake slightly and clenched his fists to make it stop. That only made the bleeding worse, though, so he let out an embarrassing whimper and forced himself to relax.

"I don't think we have the proper instruments, milord," he responded. "I'm afraid we can't move him without risking causing him even more pain."

"But he should swoon, surely?" Joshua asked a little desperately. "We can lift him onto a horse and…" The groom continued to shake his head and Joshua trailed off. "There must be _something_ we can do."

"You can see where the bullet went in," the groom said. Now Thomas wished he could see, but he was starting to get dizzy from the blood loss and didn't think he could make it into a sitting position. "I'm sorry to say, but it's too close to his heart."

"But you're not a doctor," Lord Jepsen said. "Shouldn't we hear from a doctor?"

"I interned under my father before coming here," the groom said. "I work at his practice down in the village when the estate is vacant. Anyway, there's no time to call for anyone."

Thomas felt a surge of panic go through him. He clambered for Joshua's hand and gripped it tight. "Don't leave. Please, don't leave me." He didn't want to die pleading, but his fear of dying alone overshadowed that. He didn't know if he would make it back to Kip. If he died, where would he go? He had never believed in the afterlife, foolishness with O'Brien aside. And even if he did, he could guarantee he wouldn't make it into heaven.

Joshua pressed a hand against his forehead and his fingers felt too hot on Thomas' face. The pain was excruciating, but he tried to focus on the quiet press of fingertips against his scalp. On his other side, Mr. Crawley reached out and gripped his arm.

"Thank you, Mr. Barrow," and Thomas wanted to say, "No, I'm not going to die," but there was no use in denying it. His fingers had begun to tingle. Everyone was looking at him gravely like he was already a corpse.

He wasn't scared of dying. In fact, he almost wished he had died sooner. He would have avoided a lot of pain and heartbreak and sorrow. He had turned over a razor in his hand many times, thinking of Lieutenant Courtenay, the blind soldier who had cut his wrists and left Thomas alone once again. Thomas wouldn't be missed. The Crawleys had been trying to get rid of him for years, but he had burrowed into the fabric of the family like a parasite and had kept coming back every time they tried to boot him out.

So he wasn't scared of dying. He was scared of what would come after. He was scared of never seeing Kip again, never waking up in their flat to the sound of Kip's obnoxious alarm clock. He wanted a lifetime of not kissing after Chinese food and playing Mario Kart and being the only person in the flat who drank coffee. He wanted to learn all of Kip's popular culture references and explore every inch of his body.

A sharp pain spread out across his chest and he gasped involuntarily. He was aware that everyone around him was talking, but everything had become slightly muffled. He couldn't focus on anything other than the horrible aching in his chest and Joshua's fingers, wrapped tightly around his own.

With some effort, he looked away from the men he had known for almost his whole life – Mr. Crawley, Mr. Branson, and Lord Grantham – and gazed up at the face of the man he wanted to know for the rest of it.

Joshua smiled down at him, desperately and sadly, and Thomas closed his eyes.

xxx

Thomas jerked awake, startling Kip next to him.

"You're awake," he muttered, confused. "It's three in the morning."

Thomas ignored him and sat up, grappling at his chest. He pulled his tee shirt up and slid his fingers across the skin there, but there was no hole. He reached around to his back and felt what he could reach, but he came up empty again.

"What's wrong?" Kip asked. Thomas looked over at him, eyes sleep swollen and bedheaded.

"I was shot," he said quietly. "I died."

Kip froze, mouth half-open. "You – what?"

"Mr. Crawley dropped his shotgun." Thomas ran a hand through his hair. His heart was beating out of his chest. "Matt."

"Oh," Kip said, reaching for Thomas. He looked like he didn't know quite what to think. "Are you – is there a mark?"

Thomas lifted up his shirt again and craned his neck to look down. Kip shook his head, touching the skin right below Thomas' pec.

"It didn't happen here," he said. "Does this mean…?"

"I don't know." He realized belatedly that his greatest fear hadn't come into play. He was back in Kip's bed in their little flat in London. He was wearing a faded gray shirt from Kip's university and he was barefoot. He started to laugh, relieved. "I'm here. I came back."

He turned and knocked Kip back into his pillows, kissing every inch of his face. Below him, Kip was laughing.

"God," he said, gripping Thomas' elbows. "You're like a giant dog. You've got the breath to match."

"I thought I was done for," he said happily. He touched at Kip's face like he couldn't quite believe he was real. "I didn't know what would happen to me. I was scared I wouldn't come back to you."

Kip smoothed a hand over his hair and cupped the back of Thomas' head. He looked overjoyed. "You're here," he said, his voice tight. It was only then did Thomas realize they were both starting to cry. "You're going to stay. I can feel it."

They fell back to sleep a while later, Thomas wrapped tight around Kip. At seven, Thomas awoke to the dull buzzer of the alarm clock on the nightstand. Kip reached over him to hit the snooze button, then went back to resting his head against Thomas' chest.

And Thomas – well. Thomas was home.


End file.
